


Colder Weather

by Shannon-Kind (Shannon_Kind)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Attempted Suicide (by supernatural means), Blood, Depression, DinerOwner!Dean, GoodBrother!Gabriel, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, TruckDriver!Cas, creature!cas, deancaspinefest, knife fight, murder (of minor original characters), teacher!sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-15 19:27:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9252458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shannon_Kind/pseuds/Shannon-Kind
Summary: “I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed, but there are some people that just seem to suck the joy out of the world around them.” Dean chuckles darkly in understanding. “My parents were like that.”Dean Winchester doesn’t suspect his new friend Castiel’s sincerity.  Castiel Novak is a Pranat. One wrong touch, and anyone from his species can digest the joy from the world around them.  Unwilling to doom any one town to that fate, Castiel overcomes his ‘disability’ by driving an eighteen wheeler between the hubs of a large shipping company and living on the joy from the packages in his care.  A few smiles here, a hearty laugh there, but at least he can believe no one is too deeply affected.When a terrible snowstorm forces him to pull into an empty parking lot, a kindhearted cook brings him inside the empty diner for some coffee and company.  Over several visits together, they begin to share friendship, and maybe something more.  But as much as he craves it, Castiel can never allow himself to touch Dean Winchester. Not if he wants his new friend to lead a happy life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *All my ♥ to [AutumnSwitch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AutumnSwitch/pseuds/AutumnSwitch) for letting me run about 80 iterations of Cas’s powers back and forth with her in between complaining about my busted up leg.
> 
> *Many thanks to [destielonfire](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kaidanmono/pseuds/destielonfire) and [archofimagine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchOfImagine/pseuds/ArchOfImagine) for their editing and insights, and to [CeNedraRiva](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CeNedraRiva/pseuds/CeNedraRiva) and [quiettewandering](http://archiveofourown.org/users/quiettewandering/pseuds/quiettewandering) for continuity.
> 
> * * *
> 
> This work wouldn't feel complete without the beautiful work of my artist [Rachel](http://keylimedean.tumblr.com). The art masterpost is [here](http://keylimedean.tumblr.com/post/156873508973/colderweatherartmasterpost)The first time I saw just the sketches for her art, I was blown away with the emotions they carried, be they safety and warmth, and whimsy of her doodlebug. I am super excited to have her work as a part of this story, and I encourage everyone to give her some love.

Even with the heater up to full blast, wrapped in all his winter gear, Castiel shivers as he drives. Technically, he can drive for another three hours before mandates require him to pull over for ten. He was aiming for the Super 8 about twelve miles away, but if the storm keeps up he’ll never make it.

He drives just two more minutes before the blinding white of the late January snow obscures his vision as quickly as the windshield wipers clear it. Squinting, he searches for a place to pull off the highway. He spots some parking lot lights well off the road, glowing valiantly against the weather. Eighteen wheels crunch over the deep powdery snow as he pulls into the lot. He probably takes up eight or nine parking spaces, but no one in their right mind would be coming here, wherever this is, until the storm clears up anyway. By that time, Castiel will be driving again. He turns off the engine and pulls back the curtain behind the cab, heading into the bunk. Closing the curtain behind him to keep in the warmth, he rubs his hands and powers on the bunk heater. It takes several minutes to warm up. 

He reaches above the bunk to grab one of the books from the small shelf. His hand brushes past a brown plush monstrosity: a several-thousand-times magnified stuffed doodlebug plush. His brother Gabriel gifted the ugly thing to him when he gave Castiel the trucking job for Doodlebug Parcels several years ago. The logo for the company is adorable, a brightly painted beetle carrying letters and pristine white boxes across a pale blue field. This thing is modeled on an actual doodlebug, all warty brown body and giant mandibles. 

Grabbing the library copy of that biography his brother wouldn't shut up about, and bypassing the romance novel Gabriel had thrown in the last time he visited, Castiel pulls the black comforter from his impeccably made bed and wraps himself up in it.

The wind whistles outside as he huddles in on himself and opens Alexander Hamilton. He stays tucked in the middle of the bunk, away from the icy cold walls. Even the best heater can’t warm the barely insulated metal on a night like this. He tries to read in the faint glow of the LEDs above him, the wind buffeting his cabin and banging against the metal door of the cab. 

He hears the banging again. Castiel drops his book and peers out the window into the night. A figure silhouetted by the parking lot lights knocks again, harder this time. Castiel climbs back into the front of the cab, neglecting to close the curtain. He opens the door to see the top of a blue and white striped hat. The hat tilts upwards, revealing only a pair of shaded eyes, visible between the hat and a matching scarf. Underneath, Castiel sees a dark puffy jacket, and gloved hands holding a steaming cup. A baritone voice speaks up, words bitten off from the effort of talking in the chill. “You can wait it out inside if you want, man.” Castiel looks up through the falling snow and across the lot. Several yards away he just about makes out a low metallic building with curved corners. “It ain’t much, but it’s warmer than out here. Plus, hot coffee,” he says, offering up the cup. “On the house.”

Castiel smiles at the man, taking the cup. “Thank you.” Turning back, he switches off the bunk heater to save fuel. He checks to be certain his wallet and phone are in his pockets, and climbs out of the cab, leaving the book and the comforter a minor mess on his bunk.

Castiel looks around the room. Incandescent light bulbs hang in macrame hangers from black electrical cords in the ceiling. Short, wide windows above the tables show the stark winter landscape outside, but the rich brown walls make the room feel much warmer. In front of Castiel, a wide counter separates the room. Orange topped stools stand in front of it, like at an old fashioned five and dime. "Thank you," Castiel finally manages.

"Don't mention it, man. I was just going to be sitting out here by myself riding out the storm." The man takes off his snow gear, revealing an olive green sweater and a pair of dark wash jeans. But the green of the outfit can't compare to the color of the man's eyes. Castiel’s mouth goes dry. 

"So, I was thinking of turning on the fryer. I thought I might make myself something quick to eat. Are you hungry?"

Castiel blinks in surprise. "I could eat." He removes his coat and hat, but keeps his gloves on, just in case, before stepping away from the door. 

"Hey, do you mind taking off your shoes, guy? It's just...I'd rather not have to mop again before I go."

Castiel pulls off his boots and steps aside, off of the scratchy brown carpet lying at the door to prevent people from dragging in water. "I didn't see any cars, I assumed this place was closed up for the storm."

The other man laughs. "Well, that was sort of the plan. But I didn't get out of here fast enough. My car's out back. Me and my buddy Benny built a carport for her to keep her out of the weather. She's beautiful. A '67 Chevy Impala."

Castiel laughs. "I know about your car and your friend, but I don't even know your name."

The other man joins in laughing. "I'm Dean. Dean Winchester. Welcome to Dean's Diner. That's me, by the way."

"I'm Castiel Novak. It's nice to meet you, Dean," he says, offering a gloved hand to shake.

Dean walks behind the counter, tying a tiny rectangular apron around his waist. "So, Castiel Novak," he says, grinning widely, "What can I get you today?"

"Well...what would the chef recommend?"

Dean's grin morphs into a full out smile. "Well, my specialty is definitely going to be hamburgers. Although I think Benny might have left me some gumbo here, if you're interested.

"Hmmm… left over gumbo, or fresh burgers…"

"Not that big a decision, Cas. Burger and fries, coming up. We make the patties right here on premises. Not frozen or anything."

"That sounds wonderful, Dean. Thank you." 

Castiel takes another moment to look around when Dean disappears through a small partition leading to the kitchen. The Formica counter top looks relatively new, or at least well cared for. Castiel finds he likes the brightly colored pattern, with its orange, yellow and olive green stars against the soft white background.

Booths line the front walls underneath the windows, the tables in the same pattern as the counter top. The seats are leather, like the barstools, but Castiel can’t tell what color they might be in the dim lights. 

Through a small opening in the wall in front of him, Castiel watches Dean working at the fryer. He can only make out Dean's head moving back and forth in the tiny window. He seems happy, humming a tune Castiel doesn’t know. He smiles at Dean's ease. To his surprise, Castiel finds himself tapping his leather driving gloves against the counter to Dean's rhythm. 

"You like anything special on your burger, Cas?" Dean calls through the partition. Castiel stills.

"I suppose just the usual," he says, after a moment. "Whatever you have on hand though. I wouldn't want to impose."

Dean laughs, throwing his head back. "It's a restaurant, man. I've got pretty much everything. Well...not the weird shit. But bacon, cheese, lettuce, tomato, onions? Mustard or ketchup. All that shit."

"Really? I wouldn't say no to a bacon cheeseburger then. If it isn't too much trouble." Dean laughs again, and moves out of sight. The sound of a heavy refrigerator door opening and closing breaks the easy silence for a second, then subsides into a lasting moment of peace. 

Deep in thought, Castiel doesn’t speak up until after the French fries hit the grease, hissing and sputtering in the stillness. "You called me Cas."

"What?" Dean asks, looking up from his work.

"Twice now. You called me Cas."

"Ok...yeah," Dean replies slowly.

"No one has ever called me Cas before."

Dean stops cooking completely and looks straight at Castiel through the window. "What do you mean, no one?"

"No one.” 

Dean blushes, but maybe it’s the heat from the fryer finally getting to him. "I mean, is that OK? Are you okay with me calling you Cas?"

Castiel thinks about it. He's already been thinking about it for a while, but the thought of making Dean sweat it out for a few more seconds makes him smile. "I think I like it," he finally says. "Yes, I like it when you call me Cas." 

Dean smiles. "OK, good." He looks back at the burgers and loses himself for another few moments in his cooking. Less than a minute later, there are two plates of delicious looking, and more importantly, hot, burgers and fries sitting on the ledge of the partition between the kitchen and the dining area. Dean dings the tiny silver bell on the partition, "Order up," before coming to the counter and serving Castiel. 

Neither speaks for a few minutes as they savor the warmth of the fresh food. Castiel sits on the bar stool; Dean stands on the other side of the counter, leaning heavily on it. 

"This is fantastic," Castiel admits, only half of his burger left on the plate. 

"I'm glad you like it,” Dean says, “It took me years to perfect the recipe."

"Well, I do like it. In fact, these make me very happy." Castiel eats contentedly. After several more bites, he notices Dean watching him. 

Dean blushes and turns away. "You need a refill on that coffee?" he asks, grabbing for the pot and pouring a fresh cup for himself before checking to see if Cas needs to be topped off. 

"Thank you, Dean," he says softly, as their eyes met. 

The two men watch each other for a long moment. Food and drinks, snow and wind, all are forgotten between blue eyes, and green eyes, and maybe something else.

Dean breaks the connection first, putting the pot back on the heater behind the counter. 

"Dean," Castiel says, "it's just me here. You don't have to play waiter. You've already cooked. Come sit with me." Dean hesitates for a moment, then comes to sit, leaving a stool separating him from Castiel. He slides his plate and mug closer. 

"Thanks, I think.” They eat, letting the company and food comfort them. "This is a little weird," he says after some time.

"What is?" Castiel asks, pulled from thoughts of getting to know the man next to him. 

Dean huffs a chuckle. "Sitting on this side of the counter, man. I guess I did it a few times back when we bought the place. Benny and I, and my brother, Sam, we sat here when the sale went through. It didn't look like this then."

"What did it look like?" Cas asks. His curiosity surprises him. He doesn’t speak to people outside of business transactions; his brother, Gabriel, the only exception. 

Dean thinks for a moment, his eyes sliding to the side as he accesses old memories. "It was brighter. Lots of neon. Bright colors. I think they were trying to create a fifties carhop feel. White plastic counters. It wasn't terrible, but it just wasn't right." Castiel hums understanding. "When I helped design this place...I just had this idea in mind, you know? Browns and oranges and reds and yellows. I wanted things to look a certain way. Benny, he said I was crazy. That it would never sell. He said it was too 70s, and that diners weren't even a thing in the 70s really. But I still wanted it." He sips his coffee, pensive. "My brother found this box of pictures about a year ago, before he graduated. It's from when we were kids," he pauses again, and Castiel catches his eye before Dean presses on. "There were all these pictures of our house...back...well, just back. It turns out, our kitchen looked just like this. Wood paneled walls, Formica counter tops. The pattern was almost the same. And the lights? I think my mom made them. I used to watch her, I didn't understand. She'd have these ropes and she'd tie them in weird patterns, and I had no idea she was making art, you know? I was just a kid. But all this, this is like her kitchen. Sometimes I think, this is what it would have been like, if I were cooking with her."

Castiel's hand twitches. He longs to comfort, to spread his fingers, and reach out between him and the man just one barstool away. He clenches his fist and shoves his gloved hands in his lap to avoid the temptation. "That's a beautiful story, Dean," he says instead. "Thank you for sharing that. This place is beautiful. I'm sure your home must have been, too."

Dean smiles softly, glancing down at the unfinished French fries on his plate. He pushes them over to Castiel, and gets up for the cash register. The machine dings when he pushes a button, and a drawer slides open. Dean pulls out a few quarters. Castiel watches Dean cross to the juke box at the end of the room. "This I didn't change," he says. "Well, that's a lie, I put in better music." Dropping the quarters in the machine, he makes several selections. 

"Relax,” he says, seeing Castiel’s surprised expression, “I’m not going to stick you with ‘What's New Pussycat' over and over or anything. I think that goes against UN regulations." Castiel looks confused, but smiles anyway. "Just thought we could use some tunes." As he speaks, the sounds of The Band singing 'The Weight,' a song moderately familiar, even to Castiel, fills the diner. Dean comes back to the counter, grabbing the plates before Cas stops him with a gloved hand. 

"How much do I owe you, Dean? This was fantastic."

Dean shakes his head. "No charge, Cas. This one's on the house. I woulda' gone stir crazy sitting here by myself until this storm clears. It was lucky for me you pulled up."

Castiel stands and takes his plate from Dean. "In that case, it's only fair I wash up. In my house, if you cooked for the night, you were always spared dish duty." Dean smiles and follows into the kitchen, munching on the last few fries from his plate.

Castiel puts the dishes in the industrial sink. Even in this room the colors reflect a warm, homey feel. There aren’t any of those awful almond or pink appliances, and the walls are a soft yellow. The lights glow brightly without feeling impersonal. He finds the elbow length rubber gloves at the sink. For the first time all night, Castiel peels his black leather driving gloves off, replacing them with the rubber ones. He flexes his fingers for a second, adjusting to the new sensations. If Dean notices anything strange, he doesn't comment. 

Dean sings along with the jukebox while Castiel washes, working the high pressure hose like a pro. His voice rings with playfulness, and even though he’s not pitch perfect, Castiel enjoys the performance. As Cas finishes each of the plates, Dean dries them and puts them away. Castiel pauses when the backs of their hands brush.

A joy passes through Castiel, filling him up. Sometimes when he works, delivering Christmas or birthday presents, or some other important package, he feels a glow, something that settles his insides and keeps him alive. But this doesn’t feel anything like that. It’s new, unprecedented. Slowly Castiel raises his eyes to Dean’s face, nervous about what he might find. Dean’s cheeks are painted pink, his freckles standing out pale against the color. Castiel matches his shy smile with one of his own. “You should come back,” Dean blurts out. Castiel’s head falls to the side at the unexpected sentence. “I mean, after the snow or whatever. If you want to. If, like, the food here is good or whatever. I mean, we don’t usually serve to truckers, but there’s nothing saying we can’t, and there’s this field in the back that’s ours, and there’s no reason you couldn’t park the truck there and still leave room for the other customers or whatever, so…”

Dean’s rambling fades into silence. “Thank you, Dean. I think I would like that.”

“Yeah?”

Castiel shrugs. “I suppose the food is okay,” he teases. “And I could hardly turn down a designated parking space.” He smiles nervously at Dean. His people skills are rusty. Maybe Dean misunderstood his jokes, and thinks he’s rude.

But Dean smiles back. “I guess that’s settled then.” Cas trades the rubber gloves for his driving pair, then heads back to the front for another cup of coffee.

The night winds down, talk turning to their jobs over the third cup of coffee. “I could never do what you do, man,” Dean admits. “I grew up on the road. My dad, well, he was always pulling my brother and me around. Settling down was…it was important to me. I couldn’t give that up. I’ve got a good thing going here. My brother just got his degree in teaching. I got friends here.” 

Castiel smiles. Both men have their backs to the counter. They watch the storm through the diner windows. Castiel holds a fresh mug of decaf in his lap, but Dean’s posture is more open; his elbows rest on the patterned counter behind him. There’s no buffer stool between them this time, and when Dean turns to grab a sip from his mug, their shoulders brush softly. “I think I understand. Where I grew up… It wasn’t ideal.” He speaks slowly, staring out the windows instead of looking at his new friend. “I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed, but there are some people that just seem to suck the joy out of the world around them.” Dean chuckles darkly in understanding. “My parents were like that. They fought constantly. Neither one could be happy while the other was around. Or while my brother and I were around, for that matter.” From the corner of his eye, Cas sees Dean startle and turn to him, but he keeps looking out the window. “It’s just…the way things are. It’s part of who we are. My brother and I still see each other frequently. He works at the Kansas City hub, so I make it out there every week or so. Spend my off days with him, sometimes.” His words trail off as he tries to pick the thread of conversation back up. “I didn’t want that kind of life though. At first I just didn’t want to stay at home anymore. But then… I like the driving. I meet interesting people. I get to see more than just one tiny corner of the world. It works, for me.”

“That’s good,” Dean says quietly. “That’s good, man.”

When the snow finally slows to drifting flakes, Cas excuses himself. He needs to sleep, and then has a few hours of driving to catch up on. The two men pause at the door, waiting for something to happen. Their eyes hold one another for a moment that seems to stretch for hours. Dean finally breaks it with a yawn, and Cas answers with one of his own. “Thank you again for the coffee, and the company. I’ll see you soon, Dean.”

“Yeah, Cas. See you soon.”

When Castiel arrives at Kansas City, his first stop is the rest room. He strips his gloves and folds them carefully into his coat pocket. 

He washes his hands thoroughly when he’s finished. He scrubs his long fingers, paying particular attention to the pads of his middle fingers. Unlike most people, his fingertips don’t loop or whorl. They run straight across at diagonals, thick ridges between deep narrow valleys. Satisfied only after several minutes of scrubbing, he turns off the water and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His face is red, like he’s been exerting himself. He kind of has. It’s been a while since he last fed, and everything takes more energy when he’s hungry. Sighing at the dark circles under his eyes that never really go away, he returns to the dock to unload the boxes.

“Got anything good there, today, Cassie?” a voice calls out behind him.

“Wouldn’t know yet, Gabe. But I’m hungry. Let me work.” He pulls boxes from the truck and loads them onto pallets. Every time his hands grip a new box, the tingling begins in his fingers. Most boxes, it stops there. Replacement car parts, office supplies, none of those mean anything to Castiel. But here and there, among the detritus of other people’s lives, he sometimes finds something special. 

December had kept him especially well fed, with gifts for family members and friends coming in from on-line stores, or shipping to loved ones across the country. Once, some special order yarn came through. He fed doubly on the joy the crafter would have making a baby blanket, and the feelings the expectant mother would have when she opened the gift. He had to pull himself away before he could leech all the joy from the mother first nestling her baby in the blanket, and from the baby as it snuggled in the warmth.

He stacks box after box for the hub employees to sort, and as he works, the color slowly ebbs from his face, leaving him pale. “You’re looking healthier now, little brother. Didn’t you eat anything last night?”

Even when he sleeps in his truck overnight, he takes off his gloves in whatever restaurant he stops in. He draws on the next customer’s enjoyment of a good meal, or an employee’s pride in a job well done. It sates him for a little while. But last night, he hadn’t wanted to take his gloves off. “We can talk about it upstairs,” he dismisses, stacking the last box on the pallet for distribution. Gabriel doesn’t press.

After exchanging his library books, and a quick dinner out with his brother - food never satisfies either of them, but he enjoys the flavors and the camaraderie - Castiel heads back to the hub. Gabriel unlocks the door since it’s long since closed for the night. Instead of heading out to the floor, they climb the nearby stairs. Gabriel created the company, and he keeps an apartment in the loft of his first ever distribution building. Over a few years it had grown from just two small trucks, his and Cas’s, to an international service that rivaled FedEx. Living above it since the beginning provided Gabriel an all night, all you can eat buffet.

Technically, Gabriel and Cas share the apartment. When Cas is in town, he pulls open the garish gold couch and turns it into a bed. He has to push aside the coffee table. The table is covered in mason jars wrapped in teal and gold ribbons, and filled with every kind of candy imaginable, and it’s a tricky maneuver. Gabriel has a sweet tooth, and apparently plenty of time to explore Pinterest. 

Gabriel once offered to give up his bedroom on the nights when Castiel stays in town, saying the younger brother never sleeps on a real bed, that the bunk in the truck doesn’t count. But Cas hates the ostentatious bedroom. Porcelain busts, some of them serious, but most of them cartoon-y, or worse, doodlebug related, stand littered among gilt knickknacks.

Castiel hates the doodlebugs. Gabriel thinks it’s a great joke. The microscopically tiny creatures don’t have mouths. Just a tiny hole in their body. They excrete some kind of enzyme that breaks down their food and absorb it through that little hole. Castiel hates the disgusting creatures, all hairy abdomens and giant pincers for faces. 

When he comes back into the living room from throwing in a load of laundry, Castiel finds Gabriel sitting on the pull out bed. “So you gonna tell me why you didn’t eat anything last night?” The lollipop stick hanging between his lips bobs with his words. 

Castiel sits next to him on the bed, trying to close the height difference. “I’m not sure. I pulled over because of the storm, and I ended up in a diner. I was talking with the owner for hours, Gabe. But I just never took my gloves off. It was warm and happy there. I didn’t want to ruin it.”

Gabriel bumps Castiel’s shoulder with his own. “You’re not mom and dad, Cassie. You stop before you take everything. You should have had something to eat.”

Castiel shrugs. “It just didn’t feel right. Dean was kind, I didn’t want to take any future happiness from him.”

Understanding calms Gabriel’s features. He takes the candy from his mouth and drops a kiss on Castiel’s temple. Castiel brushes it off with a grimace. “Be careful little brother.” He stands and walks to his bedroom door, leaving Castiel to grumble behind him. He turns around right before leaving the room. “I trust you though. You’re not like mom and dad. It’ll be okay.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. He hears Gabriel laughing at him as he gets ready for bed. He allows himself a small smile as he turns down the blankets and crawls into the makeshift bed. 

Cas falls asleep that night dreaming of warm lights wrapped in knotted ropes, of records spinning under a neon arch, of orange and yellow and olive green stars, and a green eyed man that never quite reaches out to touch him.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s almost a week later when Castiel’s truck rumbles off the highway and pulls in behind Dean’s diner. From here, he can see the carport that Dean and his friend built for the car. Carport is hardly the term to describe what he finds. A carport would be a few metal supports and a roof big enough to keep the rain off. This is more like a finished shed, with aluminum sided walls and a mechanical door. It must have taken days.

Someone has plowed the parking lot out front, and made a path for the classic car to get to its garage, but the field behind the diner is still covered in several inches of icy snow. Castiel’s boots break a trail until he can follow the path to the front door.

For the most part, the diner is exactly as Cas remembers. He chides himself for expecting something different. He takes off his coat and hangs it on the rack by the door with several others. His boots scuff against the rough fibers of the rug, scraping as much snow off as possible before he steps onto the tile. People sit in the booths today, chatting. A different song plays on the jukebox, and a different man stands behind the counter that Castiel now approaches. An astonishingly tall man. “I was wondering if Dean was working today?”

The man smiles, but there’s something calculating behind his eyes as he rests the coffee pot on the counter. “Sorry, I haven’t seen him today.”

Castiel’s gaze drops to the counter in disappointment. “I understand. If you see him, would you say I was looking for him? I’m Castiel.” He looks around, contemplating leaving the diner altogether. Maybe Dean would be around next week.

“Oh, you’re Cas?” the man asks, his smile turning more genuine. “My brother told me about what happened. During the snowstorm, right? Wow. That was just crazy.”

Castiel looked up in surprise. “Are you Sam?” The man nods and pours Castiel a mug of coffee before he can protest, so Cas takes a seat on one of the high bar stools. “The weather was unusual for this early in the year.” Castiel considers taking off his gloves. He could just lay them down next to his plate, but something stops him.

Sam throws a sideways glance at him, then chuckles. “I suppose so. What can I get you?” He has a pad in his hand now, pen poised over it. Castiel debates for just a second before deciding to try the Reuben. Sam jots something on the pad, then posts it through the window separating the kitchen and the dining area. Castiel can’t see anything other than one of the kitchen walls from where he sits. He hears the crash of something metal from the kitchen, followed by a muffled curse. He looks over to see Sam watching whatever is happening in the kitchen, snickering. When he finally collects himself, he heads back to Castiel, failing to hide his mirth. “So what is it you do, anyway, Cas?”

“I’m a truck driver. Dean told me you just finished your Masters degree in teaching last spring. He seems very proud of you. Are you teaching?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I got a few long term substitute jobs out in Kansas City, and I’ve been taking daily jobs around here when they need me. There’s a good chance Kansas City will take me on permanently in the fall. But for now, I’m just splitting my time between the diner and the local school district.”

“What will you teach?” A sharp ding from the silver bell sitting on the ledge of the partition window catches both Sam and Castiel’s attention, and two plates of food are pushed through. Sam excuses himself to deliver the meals, then makes the rounds, forgetting the conversation. Castiel gets a surprise when Dean emerges from the kitchen. Working in the heat of the kitchen has flushed his face. He scans the crowd before his eyes settle on Castiel. He smiles and brings over Cas’s meal.

“Sam said you weren’t here." The corners of Dean’s mouth tighten and he looks away bashfully. 

“Yeah, he covers for me. You know, in case someone shows up I don’t want to see. I’d do the same for him,” he protests.

Castiel resists the urge to reach out and touch Dean. “That I can understand. Gabriel and I look out for one another, too. There are days we don’t get along at all, but heaven forbid anyone else gets in our way.”

Dean nods. “That’s right. I’m the only one that gets to torment the Sasquatch.”

Castiel groans around his first bite of sandwich. “You made this?”

“Well, I didn’t cure the meat myself or anything, but yeah.”

“It’s delicious, Dean. Will you sit with me?” Dean looks around the diner, a troubled expression clear on his face. “I’m sorry, Dean. You’re working. I forgot for a moment.”

Dean tries to smile. “That’s okay. I would if I could, it’s just… Hey, could you stick around?”

“I…”

“Shit, I’m sorry, Cas. I know you’re on a schedule.”

Castiel shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. “I’ll eat here, then take a nap in the truck. I can come back when you finish up tonight, and I can make up for the driving I missed when I would have been sleeping.” Dean protests, but Castiel stops him with a gloved hand on his shoulder. “I would like to spend more time with you, Dean.”

“Yeah.” Dean licks his lips, nodding. “Yeah, I’d like that.” He moves toward the kitchen. “I just got to-” Banging into the workstation behind the counter, Dean sets the coffee warmer and a stack of mugs wobbling. “Ooh,” he grimaces good-naturedly. “Yeah. So. I’m gonna’ just… do some work. And then I’ll get off. In about four-five hours, and we can do… whatever? Is that good?” He makes his way through the kitchen door, not bothering to wait for Castiel’s answer. A small huff of laughter escapes Castiel.

Sam stops by a few times to check if Castiel needs anything while he’s eating, but doesn’t stay to chat. He keeps himself busy with the customers, or with cleaning up after them as they leave. The diner is much emptier than when Castiel arrived, and if he listens closely, he can her Dean faintly humming along to ‘Lodi’ in the kitchen. He’s enjoying the food and the sounds in the diner when Sam settles himself nearby behind the counter, leaning his large frame tiredly against the Formica. “I never got to answer your question before.” Cas looks up from his mug of coffee, not understanding. “It got busy. But you asked what I was going to teach. Language arts. That’s what I have my degree in. I’ve got a good feeling about Kansas City. I’m really hoping they’ll take me on full time.”

Castiel’s eyes wrinkle with his almost invisible smile. “That sounds wonderful. I wish you luck.”

Sam grins back easily. “Thanks. I’m kind of excited about it.” Cas goes to take another bite of his food. “So, uh… what do you think of the place?” He seems to be implying something, but for the life of him, Castiel can’t figure out what it is.

“The food is very good, Sam,” he says after a pensive moment. “My compliments to the chef. Your brother keeps a very nice place. Or is it yours? Or your friends… something with a B?”

“Oh, Benny?” Castiel nods. Probably. “Nah, it’s Dean’s place. Benny and I just help out. And sometimes some of the college kids when it gets crazy.”

“I like it. I was lucky to find myself here when the snow hit.” 

Sam nods, and the conversation trails off again. After a moment of waiting in the slightly awkward silence, Sam decides to make the rounds again, and Castiel breathes a sigh of relief. He glances at the kitchen doorway wistfully before finishing his last French fry and going to pay.

Sam is about to hand Castiel his change when suddenly he freezes and pulls his hand back. “You seem like a good guy, Cas.” Castiel thanks him tentatively. “No, I just mean… I know you probably didn’t come back for just the food. And that’s good. Dean said-” he stops himself abruptly. “I’m just glad you wanted to try the place out again, is all. And you’re welcome back. Anytime.” He hands over the change with a bashful smile. “I’m sorry if I made things a little weird.”

Castiel dismisses the thought. “It was nice to meet you, Sam. If you’re here when I come back after closing, perhaps we can get to know each other a little.”

Sam’s mouth drops open, his eyes happy. “You know, that sounds really great,” he says, failing to hide a sneaky smile, “but I… uh… I have this whole thing I need to do. I have a uh, job, lined up for tomorrow, and sleep. So yeah. I have to leave early tonight.” For a second Castiel thinks Sam might be making fun of him, but the he adds, sincere and friendly, “Maybe some other time, okay, Cas?”

Castiel’s eyes narrow, but he nods. “I’d like that. Until next time, Sam.”

Sam grins. “So there’s a next time already, huh? Good to know.” Castiel startles at that, his mouth gaping as he tries to come up with a reply. But before he can think of something, Sam is already walking away to see to another customer. So he grabs his coat on the way out the door and walks back to his truck.

The cab feels cold and empty after the warmth and fullness of the diner. Castiel pulls the blackout curtains around his bunk, the silence grating at his brain, even with the hum of the bunk warmer underneath him. He hums snatches of melody - maybe something he made up, maybe memories from a favorite juke box.

Ignoring how energized and awake he feels, Castiel pulls down his blankets and slides into bed. The black comforter feels awkward around him. He tosses and turns, unable to find a comfortable position. The caffeine from two, maybe three cups of coffee, zings through his veins. He groans and rolls over, then attempts to punch the pillow into submission beneath him before trying to find yet a better way to lay.

Just rest, he tells himself. Even if it’s not really sleeping, just resting will be enough when he drives away tonight. Because if he’s being honest, if the choice is between working and staying to see his only friend, there is no choice. Decision cemented, Castiel settles more comfortably into the mattress. Even half an hour of rest, and not being upright and moving, will let him drive better later.

Castiel is startled when his alarm wakes him a few hours later. He must have been sleeping pretty soundly, because it looks like snooze had been hit. Twice. Ignoring his rumpled bed, Castiel runs his long fingers through his hair to try to tame it, throws his coat and gloves on, and hurries back around to the front of the diner.

Dean looks up from wiping down one of the booths with an easy smile on his face when the bell rings announcing Castiel’s return. “Hey there, Sleeping Beauty. How was your nap?” Castiel blushes as he takes off his coat.

“I’m sorry, I think I overslept.”

“Don’t worry about it. You want another cup of coffee? Some pie? I might be a while cleaning up. Sam ran out on me.”

“Let me help,” Cas says.

“No way, man. I asked you to come spend time with me. Not to work for me.”

Castiel’s eyes crinkle with mischief. “Well… you can either tell me what I can do to help, or I can find something to help with myself. I can’t guarantee the end result though.” He slides behind the counter and starts to fiddle with the coffee machine.

“No! No stop! You can help!” Dean laughs, hurrying behind Castiel and making sure nothing has been ruined. “Here,” he says, pressing a rag and a spray bottle into Cas’s hand. “Go finish the tables, then you can do the counter. I’ll finish up back here, but Cas: Do not touch my coffee pot.”

Castiel nods, a subtle smirk on his face. “Of course, Dean.” He slides his gloves off when he starts to work, and a tingle flows down his arms and into his hand when he touches the spray bottle and the gloves. There’s little joy in either, and the feeling soon passes.

The two work in productive, companionable silence for several minutes. After his second or third booth, Castiel hears the cash register ding, and the drawer slide open. He can just about make out the swish of bills as Dean counts out the till. He’s leaning far over a table, wiping almost up to the wall when the gentle swishing stops. Cas glances back to find Dean looking at him intently, his hands paused with a stack of singles in each hand. Dean looks away quickly when he notices Cas’s eyes on him, starting his work again with renewed spirit and counting off the amount out loud. Castiel files the experience away to look at more closely another time, and goes back to work.

When Dean finally announces they’ve finished with the front, the first thing Cas does is slide his gloves back on. The pair celebrate with mugs of coffee and a sampling of the leftover deserts from the case. Dean insists he would just have had to throw them out anyway. Sitting next to each other at the counter, Dean bumps Castiel’s shoulder with his own. “Thanks for the help today. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to, Dean. It was nice. Different.”

“I guess so, driving all day, working alone most of the time.” Castiel just nods, filling his mouth with sweet pastry. “You met my brother tonight, what did you think?”

Castiel considers. “I think he enjoys teasing you, rather like my brother enjoys teasing me.” Dean grins. “And I think he’s excited about that job in Kansas City. Perhaps he will meet my brother there, and they can tease us both in absentia.” Dean’s grin falters.

“Hey, yeah. That would be cool,” he says without enthusiasm.

Castiel puts down his fork. “Dean,” he asks, “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Dean says, surprised. Castiel looks at him critically. “Dude, it’s nothing.”

“I haven’t known you very long, and I don’t think you owe me any kind of explanation. But if you’re going to open up to someone, why not a drifter from out of town who you only have to see once a week. Who will I tell?”

Dean shakes his head. “I’m proud of him. And he’s going to be freaking awesome out there. Maybe you can even catch up with him and keep me posted, yeah?”

Castiel tries to keep the realization and pity off of his face. “Of course, Dean. I imagine he’ll do well with anything he sets his mind to: he’s had you as a role model.”

Dean rolls his eyes and pushes Castiel with one hand, sending him rocking gently to the side. Castiel sends back a small smile, the tension not entirely broken, but easing. “Yeah, well, he’d better. I worked hard for that jerk.”

“As hard as you worked watching me clean the tables?” Castiel accuses. Dean blusters, unable to form a coherent sentence in his embarrassment. When Castiel starts to laugh, he scowls.

“You son of a bitch,” he says with false heat, swatting at Castiel with an open hand. Cas dodges and catches Dean’s eye. Suddenly the moment stops, and both men’s expressions turn serious, caught in a staring contest.

Castiel hardly blinks as he watches Dean lick his lips, watches him breathe, deeper and deeper as the moment stretches ever longer. “Can I kiss you?” Dean whispers.

Castiel blinks and the spell is broken. “Oh, Dean… I… I don’t think I’m ready.”

Dean smiles brightly, but his eyes are sad. He laughs and stands. “That’s cool, Cas.” He reaches toward Castiel’s gloved hand, but stops himself short. Castiel closes the distance, and suddenly they’re holding hands. “That’s cool,” Dean repeats, breathy and hopeful. “But just so you know, that’s a standing offer.” He smirks and pulls Castiel into the kitchen to finish the dishes.

* * *

A surprisingly warm day in the first week of March finds Castiel back at his favorite diner. Getting a nod of permission from his brother, Dean joins Cas in one of the booths. The red leather seat shifts when Dean slides in next to him, and Castiel’s eyes open wide in surprise. “You have to try this pecan pie, Cas,” he says, sliding a plate across the table.

“Of course, Dean.” Cas quirks a tiny smile and picks up the fork with his gloved hand.

“Hey, aren’t you like, really warm in those gloves all the time?”

Castiel’s slight grin falters, but it lifts back up quickly. “My hands tend to feel cold, Dean. The gloves keep me comfortable.” Dean nods his begrudging understanding. “What?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

Castiel huffs and rolls his eyes. “Of course not, Dean.” He takes the gloves off anyway, shooting Dean a small, shy smile. Dean’s return smile is open and bright, and it takes Castiel a moment to catch his breath. He cuts a bite of the pie with his fork and tries to use it to hide the smile creeping over his face. The flavors are perfect. “Thank you. This is really very good.” Dean blushes red. “Dean, did you make this?” Dean scrubs the back of his neck with his hand and refuses to meet Castiel’s eyes, but he’s smiling widely now. Cas takes another bite of the pie and watches out of the corner of his eye as Dean’s blush darkens.

“Oh, sorry Cas,” Dean blusters. “Let me get you a cup of coffee.” Dean shifts his weight to slide out of the booth, but sneaks his hand into Castiel’s to give it a quick, embarrassed squeeze. Castiel pulls his hand back, gasping and fearful.

“Dean-” he starts.

“No, Cas. I’m sorry. Pretend I didn’t do anything.” Dean quickly finishes extracting himself from the booth, the blush deeper, but all smiles gone from his face. “Just pretend that didn’t happen, okay? Yeah. I’m just gonna… yeah.” Castiel can see the hurt of rejection in Dean’s eyes as he babbles, until Dean hangs his head and rushes to the kitchen.

Ignoring the confused glance Sam shoots his way, Castiel pulls on his gloves and follows Dean, catching up with him only a few seconds later. Dean is leaning over with his hands braced against the sink, muttering to himself. He jumps when Castiel puts a gloved hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

Dean’s expression is resigned when he turns around. He leans back against the sink’s basin with a heavy sigh. “You don’t have to apologize, Cas. It’s me. I should have known better. Hell, I didn’t even ask if you were into guys.”

“I… I think I’m learning that I am,” Cas replies tentatively.

Dean’s smile is full of self-hatred. “So it’s just me then.” He shrugs it off. “It’s cool. I should have asked first.”

Castiel shakes his head vehemently. “It’s not… Dean, I think that it *is* just you. But not the way you think. If I could, I’d…”

“You’d what?” Dean asks warily. Castiel doesn’t answer. Everything he feels must be showing on his face: fear, hope, despair, trust. “Forget it,” Dean mutters. He turns to pull on the long rubber gloves, then picks up one of the plates piled up high in the sink.

“Dean, I think we need to talk.”

Dean hunches in on himself and turns on the water. “There’s nothing to talk about, Cas. You’re not interested. It’s not a big deal.” Castiel slams his hand into the giant ice machine. The appliance rocks back into the wall and the sliding door dents. Dean lets go of the spray nozzle in his surprise, and the water turns off automatically. The plate he was washing clatters into the sink. “What the fuck?” He looks from Castiel to the dented machine.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice calls from the other room, concerned.

“Yeah, we’re fine,” Dean says, but exasperation still laces his voice.

“I’m so sorry, Dean. I’ll replace it. I wasn’t thinking.”

Dean pulls of the rubber gloves and comes over to inspect the ice machine. He tentatively gives it a push. When it stays firmly in place, he pushes a little harder. The machine still doesn’t move, not even slightly. His questioning gaze shifts to Castiel who stands there uncomfortably. Dean tries the door, but the large dent holds it shut. “Oh, Dean. I never meant to do that. I’ll pay for a new one.” He pulls out his phone and opens the web browser, already looking for a replacement, but Dean pushes his hand down.

“It’s alright, man. Not a big deal. I needed to defrost it anyway.” He drags the largest of his pots down from the rack overhead and sets it on the floor. After a moment of reaching around in the back of the machine, he finds the end of a hose, which he drops into the pot, then unplugs the machine. “Once I get it all cleared out I should be able to take it apart and bang the door back into shape.” Castiel nods, but he doesn’t look convinced. “Anyway, I’m the one who should be apologizing for springing that shit on you.”

“No, Dean. I- I want to explain. If you’ll let me.” Dean catches his eye, and they stand that way, barely blinking, as the rumble from the patrons in the next room mixes with the classic rock from the jukebox. Finally, Dean nods. Castiel’s eyes close, and he sucks a deep breath in through his nose. “You might want to sit down.” There’s a spindly wooden chair leaning against the wall, and Dean pulls it into the center of the room and spins it around before straddling it. “I care about you a lot, Dean. The way I think that maybe you care for me, too.” He reaches for Dean’s hand, and when he takes it, Dean’s eyes grow wide in pleased surprise. Castiel smiles sadly. “But it’s not a good idea.”

He takes off his gloves and tries to show Dean the pads of his fingers. Dean glances at his hands and looks back up, confusion and hurt clear in his features. “Look closer, Dean.” He points at his middle finger. “They aren’t like your fingers. I’m not human, Dean.” He doesn’t wait for Dean to react. “I can talk like one, and act like one. I can keep a job and travel, and make friends, and eat. But I eat for fun, Dean. I eat because I like to spend time with people. Normal people. This,” he says, reaching out and touching the chair with his bare hand, “this is how I eat.” After a second the tingling starts, and he gets an image of the bear of a man that works for Dean, kissing a dark haired woman with Mediterranean features, an image of hands traveling bodies as the chair balances precariously on two legs. “Who is the Greek or Italian woman that Benny seems so fond of?” He pulls his hand away before he can take any more of their joy.

“Andrea?” Dean stands up to look through the kitchen window. He shifts toward where Cas is standing, trying to see what Cas can see. “They aren’t even here.”

“I saw them when I touched the chair, Dean. I’m not human.”

Dean laughs, but it sounds forced. Castiel tries again. “My parents are Pranat. I am, too. And my brother. We feed on future happiness, through our fingers. It’s why I wear the gloves. My brother and I kind of realized… We can eat meat, touch leather. Dead things, they have no potential for joy.” He shrugs sadly. 

“Prove it. Touch it again. What happens next?”

“I won’t, Dean. You don’t want me to, not really. I stopped before I took all the good feelings from that moment. It could change their whole relationship.” Dean scoffs. “When you tried to hold my hand, my bare hand, I…” he shakes his head. “I don’t want to hurt you, Dean. I don’t want to hurt anyone, but you’re the last person I would ever want to hurt.” He risks a glance at Dean’s eyes, and sees only confusion. “I was scared,” he admits finally.

“Is this even for real?” Dean wonders.

Castiel tries to smile, but he doesn’t have the energy anymore. “It is. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“I’m not going to lie; I think I need some time to sort through this. That’s… a lot to spring on a guy, you know? This whole not human thing.” Castiel nods again, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I can’t promise that I’m not going to freak out about this.”

“I understand. I shouldn’t have said anything. I only wanted you to know that your feelings are… not unreturned.”

Dean’s hand scrubs over his mouth. “Yeah. No, that’s good. Yeah.” Castiel nods one last time, then steels himself to leave the kitchen. “Hey, Cas,” Dean calls him back. He turns. “I just need a little time. And I know… I can’t ask you to sit here waiting for me to get over myself, but… will you come back?”

“You’d want me to come back?”

“Yeah, I think… yeah, Cas. I want you to come back.”

Castiel finds the energy to smile again. “Of course, Dean.” He hears the sounds of Dean washing the dishes as he walks away.


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel is understandably nervous when he arrives at the diner the next week. Dean stands near the cash register when he walks in, and gives him a small smile and nod before he heads into the kitchen. Castiel tries to ignore it. He takes one of the far booths, maybe he won’t make Dean quite as uncomfortable if he’s further away.

Benny follows Dean out from the kitchen a moment later. Castiel nods to himself. It’s good that Dean has someone here for backup. He can go work in the kitchen until Castiel leaves, and neither of them have to call one another out on it. Dean pulls off his little apron and drops it behind the counter, and Castiel has to avert his eyes. Dean’s going to take his break and leave Benny in charge. He can’t even stand the thought of being in the same building as Castiel. Well, that’s not surprising. Either Dean believes Cas is a liar, and doesn’t want to see him anymore, or Dean believes him. And well, finding out that your friend… no, Dean had made it very clear, that someone you think of as more than a friend, is not human, that can’t sit right. But Castiel can do this for him. He can have a quiet lunch, and then maybe he’ll tell Benny that he wishes Dean well, but he won’t be coming back. It was nice, while it lasted. But he and Gabriel, they don’t get to keep nice things. And that’s okay.

Two cups of coffee softly click as they settle on the table in front of Castiel. He looks up, and Dean stands there with a timid grin on his face. “Mind if I sit?” Castiel shakes his head and gestures to the open side of the booth in front of him, so Dean sits down. They don’t really talk at first. Cas sips his coffee. Dean watches, silently.

“Dean, I-”

“So Cas-” they start at the same time. Castiel looks down, but Dean chuckles softly. “You go first.”

“No. You, please.”

Dean nods and takes a breath. “I just want you to know, in case you can’t tell with me sitting here and all, I’m okay with what you told me. And for what it’s worth, I believe you.”

“You do?” Cas gasps.

“Yeah. There’s no reason for you to lie to me. And… that was the only time you ever pulled away from me. If you were lying, you would have either pulled away before that, or not at all, right?” Cas nods slowly. “Plus there was the ice maker.” Cas cocks his head to the side in confusion. “It took all my strength and a mallet to get that anywhere near back into shape. I tried punching it myself. Almost broke my damn hand, and I didn’t even put a mark on it. How the hell did you do that?”

“I… It didn’t occur to me that other people couldn’t, I suppose. Maybe it’s because I lift boxes almost every day? I must have decent upper body strength.”

“No, Cas. You’re strong. Crazy strong.” Castiel tries to look away. Dean lays a hand on his and Castiel’s eyes are drawn back to where their hands rest on the table. “I can do this now, right? You didn’t pull away. You’re not scared when you’re wearing your gloves.”

Castiel studies Dean’s face. “You really don’t mind that I’m not… like you?”

Dean scoffs. “You’re my friend. It’s not like I’d care if you were a different religion, or a different sexual orientation. Why the hell am I going to start to care because you’re a different race?”

“Because,” Cas says, leaning into whisper, “I’m not just a different race, I’m not human.”

Dean dismisses the thought with a cocky smirk. “Seems to me you’re just about as human as anyone else. You put your pants on one leg at a time.” He pauses to look at Castiel critically. “Unless…”

Castiel’s worry cracks a little at that and he snickers. “One leg at a time,” he confirms. “On and off.”

“Speaking of off,” Dean says, looking absolutely lecherous, “that standing offer is still on the table, now that we’ve cleared the air and all.”

Castiel stills. “Dean,” he says sadly. “Besides my brother, you are by far the best friend I’ve ever had. You mean the world to me, and nothing would make me happier than to share that world with you.”

Dean shifts on the bench uncomfortably. “I know there’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere,” he says, resigned.

Castiel’s sigh is so loud he expects the whole diner to hear it, even over the classic rock playing through the jukebox next to him. “But I can’t touch you. How can we be… that? How can I kiss you when I can’t even shake your hand without doing… something I don’t even want to think about?”

Dean nods, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the words he refuses to say. “I understand. Just, uhm…” he runs his hands through his hair. “Don’t disappear on me, Cas. Please. Not because of this. I know what it’s like to have people disappear, and just… not you too, okay?”

“You’re my best friend,” Castiel sympathizes. “You won’t get rid of me that easily. I’ll only go if you tell me to.” Dean smiles and squeezes Castiel’s hand. When Castiel feels the tingling this time, it’s not coming from his hunger.

When Castiel makes his weekly pilgrimage to the diner during a cold snap shortly before Easter, he finds the place covered in paper bunnies and eggs. He laughs at the idea of the three big men who work there wading through the decorations to deliver food to the customers.

For the past few weeks, Castiel had been more comfortable taking his gloves off in the diner, though he carefully chose not to touch anything that might be important to Dean. He takes special care to avoid the jukebox unless he’s wearing them as a barrier. Hailing Benny with his usual greeting, he settles onto an empty seat at the counter, tucking his gloves into his pocket. “Well hey there, brother. Long time no see. How you been doing?”

“I’m fine.” He smiles at the waiter’s friendliness. “And you?”

“Can’t complain, can’t complain. But you know what, I’m just about due to have a break now, and Dean wouldn’t want to have to pay me extra, so I’ll see you in a bit.” He winks at Cas, and he has to fight to hide his growing smile while Benny shouts into the kitchen: “Dean, I need you to come cover the front. I gotta hit the head.”

Castiel sucks in a breath as he hears Dean’s playful grumble coming from the room in the back. “Damn sorry excuse for a friend, pulling me up front and leaving me alone right before the dinner rush.”

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel’s coarse voice stops the other man’s grumbling and changes it to a brilliant smile.

“Hey, Cas!”

“If you’re that busy, I can wait to eat and help you out for a few minutes until Benny gets back from his break. I wouldn’t trust myself to cook, but I’m sure I can manage getting food to the right tables. I am in the delivery business, after all,” he says with humor.

“No way, man! Sit down! I’m sure you’ve been working for hours. Let me get you some coffee. What else do you want today?” Dean bustles efficiently behind the counter, pouring a fresh mug of the dark brew. He brings it over to Castiel and stands watching while he takes the first warming sip.

“Excellent, as always, Dean.”

While a call from another patron pulls Dean away, Castiel peruses the menu. Since coming for the first time that January night, Castiel has tried most of the diner’s regular menu, but he wanted to have one of Dean’s burgers again. Maybe it’s the memory of that first night, the snow and the solitude. There were no other customers then to pull Dean’s attention away, the food was refreshing, and it warmed him from the inside out.

He pushes the thoughts away with resignation. Burgers are not on the menu today. Instead he’ll try some of Benny’s chicken pot pie, and if he has room left over, he’ll have a slice of the strawberry pie he saw in the display case on his way in. The bell over the door tingles cheerfully as Dean writes down Castiel’s order, and he looks up to see the new customers. “I don’t mind waiting until Benny gets back for my dinner. Just keep my coffee topped up and I’ll be fine.” 

“You got it, handsome.” Dean winks. Cas can’t tell if he’s being mocked, or if Dean is serious, but his cheeks pale anyway. Encouraged by Cas’s pleased bashfulness, Dean blows him a kiss on the way to the register.

Two men wrapped against the cold spell make their way to the counter. A third hangs back near the coat rack, leaning idly against the wall. Castiel’s eyes drift past them as he looks over the luncheon crowd, maybe if Benny or Sam are around he’ll have someone to talk to while Dean works. 

An out of place glint of light catches his eye, and Cas turns. A man in a navy blue ski mask is brandishing a knife at Dean, talking quietly but insistently. Years of self-preservation training rush into his head - sparring with Gabriel, throwing knives at a dart board with his father - and rush out just as quickly. He’s never had to do this for real. Dean stands stiffly behind the counter, eyes flicking back and forth, smile tight and a little hysterical. 

Castiel stands. A man in a red mask and a leather jacket pushes him back down onto the bar stool. “We don’t want any trouble, buddy. We’re just gonna get what we came for and leave you folks alone.” Castiel can’t hear what Dean is saying, but Navy Mask is making wide gestures with his weapon, closer and closer to Dean’s face. Dean pushes the button on the register, and the chime is deafeningly loud in the sudden silence. He holds his hands in the air, moving slowly. Red Mask’s eyes are on Dean too, now, and Castiel’s decision is made for him.

Cas grabs the man’s arm, and pulls him into the counter; the world explodes.

The surface of the counter splinters and Cas hears his heartbeat like waves in his head. Navy Mask slashes where Dean should be. Where’s Dean? Cas runs, shoulder colliding with muscle. The man slides across the floor almost crashing into the jukebox. A noise behind Cas: he turns again. A shadow jumps over the bar in the corner of Castiel’s eye as he turns, but he ignores it for the man in front of him. He’s coming at Cas, but Cas sidesteps and grabs the attacker from behind. Digging his feet into the ground, Castiel pushes the man in the red mask to the front door. Dean stands holding it open, the third man long gone. With a final shove, the man in Cas’s arms stumbles out the door. 

Castiel watches Dean closely. “Are you okay?”

“Cas!” Castiel turns quickly enough to see a blur of silver. Pain shoots through his wrist as he strikes his palms into the man’s chest. The man staggers back, gripping the knife tightly. Cas grabs a wrist, or maybe an arm, and bangs it into the booth seat beside him until the weapon clatters to the floor. The growl from the man is almost inhuman as he grapples with Castiel. Twisting and pulling, both men end up on the floor, grasping for the knife. A boot blurs through Cas’s vision, crushing the other man’s hand to a stop. He looks up to see Dean, and his hand grabs the knife, hard, smooth metal under his fingers. Benny’s voice rumbles from somewhere above and the masked man curses about three against one. Castiel’s fingers flex against the blade.

Dean is safe.

And then the tingle. Visions of blood. Phantom pain. 

Head swimming, Castiel pushes the knife away. “I don’t think I’m very hungry anymore, Dean.” Castiel vomits, and his head crashes to the tile floor.

Castiel wakes in a brightly lit room. The teal walls and tiny gilt and porcelain statues hurt his eyes. He tries to sit up among the pillows and the extra fluffy comforter, but it makes his stomach roll and he lays back down. He recognizes this room. He wishes he didn’t. “Gabe?” he calls feebly.

Gabriel comes in seconds later. He fluffs some pillows and helps Castiel to sit up and rest against them. Castiel’s stomach doesn’t recoil this time. “Hey there, kiddo. How you doing?”

Castiel examines his body. “Everything hurts. My head. My stomach. What happened?”

Gabe sighs, sitting next to Castiel at the head of the bed. He wordlessly offers his brother a pixie stick from the mason jar on the nightstand, but Castiel pushes it away, disgusted. Gabriel rips open the orange tube and swallows the contents, not meeting Castiel’s eyes. “Not really sure, Cassie. I got a call from your phone yesterday. Your boyfriend must have snagged it while you were passed out in that diner you like so much. He wasn’t sure if he should take you to the hospital or not, but I convinced him to wait until I got there.”

Castiel processes this slowly, his face ruddy and sweaty just from the effort of sitting. “Not my boyfriend,” he protests blearily. Gabriel chuckles at him, a teasing look in his eye. “Where’s the truck?” he asks suddenly.

“Relax, baby bro. Baldur rode out with me and drove back your truck. He’s got your route until you’re feeling up to it.” A dizzy spell sweeps Castiel and he leans back heavily into the pillows. Gabriel fusses with the wool comforter, unable to touch his brother but concerned regardless. When it passes, he holds a glass of water with a straw for Castiel to drink. Cas smiles his thanks. “What do you remember?”

Castiel closes his eyes, willing the memory to become clear. “There was a fight. Someone tried to stab Dean, but I got in the way. We were on the floor, fighting for his knife. Is Dean okay?”

“Yeah, Dean’s fine, Cassie. He told me you sent two of the guys running, and helped take down the third. No one got hurt. Well, except the guy that got arrested. You broke his arm.” Castiel fights the wave of nausea. “And apparently, your boy-toy got his virile buddy to drag your sorry ass into the back room before the police and ambulance arrived.” Castiel grimaces. “Not sure how he got the rest of his customers to keep quiet about the guy passed out in the back.”

Castiel’s eyes lose all focus, and then he’s vomiting into the small garbage pail next to Gabriel’s bed. Gabe politely looks away and hands him a tissue, then offers him a wrapped mint from one of the many candy jars around the room. Castiel tries to push it away, but Gabe insists. “Mint is supposed to be good for an upset stomach.” Castiel takes the candy grudgingly, if nothing else his mouth won’t taste so bad. “I can count on one hand the number of times either one of us were this sick, Cassie. Did you catch it on the road? At that diner?”

Castiel knows what Gabriel is after. There were a few times in his life he’s gotten this sick. And it only ever happens when he’s feeding. “It had to have happened at the diner. But I’ve never gotten sick from a cup or a fork at a restaurant. Something with emotional ties, sure. Not something that passes from person to person.”

“You were fighting with your gloves off?” Gabriel realizes.

Castiel’s eyes widen. “There wasn’t time to put them back on, Gabe!” he says defensively, squirming to sit up higher so his brother can’t look down at him.

Gabriel stops him with a finger to his lips. “Hey. Relax. I wasn’t there, I’m going to trust you on this one, okay? But what did you touch?”

Castiel thinks back. “I pushed one of the attackers. I grabbed the other one to get his knife away from him… It could have been either of them.”

“Did you feel it?” Gabriel asks.

“We were moving too fast; I didn’t even feel like I was feeding at all until… I grabbed the knife, to keep it away from him after he dropped it.” Memories of blood and bone and fighting surge back into the front of his mind, and he has to fight not to vomit again. Gabriel pats his leg comfortingly through the comforter, and Castiel doesn’t try to push him away. “It was the knife. He wanted to stab Dean. They said they weren’t going to hurt anyone, but he was hoping to. When he gets the knife back from the police, he’s going to find someone else to hurt.”

“Shhh,” Gabriel consoles. “Shhh, Cassie. It’s okay, kiddo. Remember we can’t control any of it. We only see the potential. There’s no promise that it will come to pass.”

Castiel glares at him. “When has it ever worked that way?” Gabriel gives him a gentle smile, but doesn’t answer. “But Dean’s okay?” he asks finally, to change the subject if nothing else.

“He’s good, kid. He’s good.” Castiel nods and slides down on the bed, letting his brother pull the covers up over him like he hasn’t done since they were both small. “I’ll be around,” Gabriel says quietly; then he turns out the light and heads to the pull out couch in the living room.

Cas isn’t well enough to resume his route that week, but he makes a trip out to the diner for his regular day anyway. A huge banner inside proclaims “Our Hero” between pictures of those awful cartoon doodlebugs. Gabriel probably had the damn thing made up and sent here, too. “There he is, the man of the hour!” Benny calls out when Cas first comes through the door. The whole diner cheers, although Cas doubts most of them have any idea who he is. He blushes white as he scuffs his boots on the carpet and hangs his coat.

Before he can get his gloves off, Dean steals a hug; then he’s pulling him over to the counter. He practically tugs Cas’s gloves off for him before setting him down in front of a whole pie, still in its glass pie plate. “Trust me,” he whispers, standing behind Castiel. He fights his instinct to pull away as Dean takes each of Castiel’s wrists and guides them until his fingers touch the pie plate.

The familiar tingling starts again in his arms and fingers, and then a rush of happiness and warmth. He sees Dean taking the empty pie plate and bringing it into the kitchen to wash. But where is all this satisfying emotion coming from?

He tries to pull his hands away, but Dean holds them in place gently, grinning.

It’s a moment before he realizes that it’s not joy he’s feeling, but something more like nostalgia. Memories of joy. It takes Castiel’s breath away, and fills him more than any joy he’s ever experienced.

Cas gasps in awe and removes his hands, turning on his stool to look up at Dean. “How…?”

Dean smirks. “It’s all in the planning, Cas. I always remember good times when I use this dish. It was my mom’s.”

Cas goes to put a hand on Dean’s arm, but stops himself short. “How did you know I would stop? I could have drained it. Every time you used it you would remember your mom, but it wouldn’t mean anything to you. Why would you do that, for me?” 

Dean rests a hand on Cas’s wrist, tentatively, until he’s sure Cas will accept it. “I know you, Cas. You’re not a bad guy. It’s a chance I was willing to take.”

The two share a long gaze. Cas can feel the tears welling up in his eyes, and see that Dean’s eyes are watery, too. “So it’s good?” Dean asks finally, turning away to wipe his eyes.

Cas pretends he doesn’t notice. “Amazing.”

“No,” Dean says quietly, “awesome.”

“Awesome,” Cas agrees gravely. 

Sam comes bounding up next to them. “You didn’t even try it yet! You don’t have to lie to get into his good graces, Cas. Kicking those guys’ asses helped a lot more than liking his pie will. He’d probably rather eat the pie himself.”

Castiel turns to greet Sam, but in doing so his eye catches something on the counter a few feet away. A spider web of cracks leads to an asymmetrical hole in the counter top, hastily covered with masking tape that sags over the jagged edges. Cas stands and runs his fingers over the damage. “Dean, I’m sorry.”

“Are you kidding? I missed it when you slammed that guy into the counter, but I got to see it on the video. That was totally badass.”

“But your restaurant…”

Benny overhears that, passing behind them with the coffeepot. “Insurance will cover it, brother. Nothin’ to worry your pretty little head over,” he reassures Castiel before continuing with his work. Someone has to keep the place functioning - the thought rises unbidden through Cas’s remorse.

“Go on,” Dean says. “Have some pie. I’ll bring out a burger for you in a few minutes,” he says, leaving for the kitchen. Cas can just nod.

After stealing a glance to make sure Dean is busy, Sam takes the seat next to Cas. He watches Castiel sit in stunned silence for a moment before cutting the first slice of pie and serving it. “You should really eat. You’ll hurt his feelings.”

Cas picks up the fork and takes a bite. It is as ‘awesome’ as Dean said it would be. “I need to thank you,” Sam says. Cas looks up, ready to brush aside the gratitude, but Sam continues, “Really. I’ve seen the video. Dean didn’t want me to, but he’s got to take off sometimes. That guy was right up in his face. He would have turned it into a fight whether you were there or not. And maybe Dean could have held his own, but maybe not. So thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Sam,” Cas replies gravely.

“I’m glad he has a friend like you.”

Several weeks pass, but Dean, Sam, and Benny are never all in the diner together like they were for Cas’s “Thank You” party. Dean is usually around when Cas arrives for his weekly visit. On the few times they miss each other, he always tells Cas how sorry he is for not being there when they get to catch up again. It’s a nice routine.

The insurance company replaces the counter, although how they found the same pattern Castiel doesn’t know. He still has trouble looking at the spot he had shattered, and often relegates himself to the red leather booths now. Sometimes Dean sits with him when there isn’t a rush. Some nights Cas makes it in just before closing time and makes himself useful cleaning up. He owes it to Dean, now that Dean refuses to let him pay for anything. Even dessert.

Castiel tries to keep his gloves off more often, too. Dean needs to know that Castiel feels at home here, comfortable. It also serves to remind Castiel that no matter how much he may want to to, they can’t touch. Not ever. Not even casually.

It’s not unusual on those nights for Cas to catch Dean watching him from behind the counter. Just like it’s not unusual for Castiel to catch himself staring at Dean while he works as well. The only thing more commonplace is when they catch one another’s eyes and their gazes lock. Not for the first time, Castiel curses his species.


	4. Chapter 4

May blows in, ending the cold snaps and bringing the warmer weather. Castiel often goes without his jacket in the truck. Of course, this means that when he arrives back at the hub in Kansas City he doesn't have an extra layer to take off, making unloading on the dock disgustingly warm.

May has always been a lean month for him and his brother, at least, it has been since Gabriel opened this company. Care packages come from home for college students in August and September. Sometimes the parcel service will get Halloween costumes. Thanksgiving is tough, but by then things are already being sent for the winter holidays. Valentine’s day feeds him well, but come March or April… the only halfway decent week is the week before Easter, and even then there isn’t much joy to go around. From Easter on, it’s slender pickings until August rolls around again. Castiel has to subsist on whatever he can glean from the random birthday gift or self-indulgence that gets sent through the company. Maybe he and Gabriel need to work out a better system.

He unloads the truck slowly. His fellow employees likely blame the heat, but Castiel is trying to keep the tingle and the images from each package as long as possible. It’s a little like junk food must be like for humans. There isn’t much sustenance there, but if he can eat enough of it, at least he won’t feel hungry. Right? He sighs. There’s some crafting supplies, but the person who’s making it begrudges the receiver, and it gives him a headache.

He gets lucky with a shipment of books. He’s not sure if they’re a gift or not, but the reader will get hours of enjoyment from them. He tries to pull himself away after the first few chapters of the first book, hopefully she’ll just think it’s a slow start. He’s feeling a little more chipper when Gabriel steps up behind him. The smell of sugar permeates the loading dock. “Hey there, Cassie. Anything good?” Castiel turns around and Gabe catches sight of his lightened skin. “I guess so. Mazel Tov. Are we still on for dinner tonight, or are you planning on turning back around and spending your night off with your boyfriend?”

Castiel sighs as he grabs the next box. “He’s not my boyfriend, Gabriel, for the last time.” The tingle starts in his fingers and he sees a young man giving a presentation. He’s proud. “I swear I’ve told you this a thousand times. We don’t do that.” Gabriel gives him a leer, although he knows perfectly well what Castiel meant. They fought too hard to not become their parents, to not enter a relationship where they will just make everyone around them miserable. Because they can’t help it. It’s a part of who they are. But he keeps his mouth closed; they’re in public. He doesn’t want to destroy the world Gabriel worked so hard to build. The next package sends him images of a child playing on a video game console, and although he could milk that one, he pushes it away.

“Alright, baby bro. Don’t get your panties in a twist. Why don’t you finish up and you can take a nap before dinner? Maybe then you won’t be so damned cranky.”

“I’m not cranky, Gabe.” One more package. One more tingle. The images come hard and fast. Anger and fear, hurt and disdain. He feels his own hands spasm when he sees the gunshot, tightening the innocent looking powder blue box to his chest. It sounds like the air is rushing around him. It feels something like when he was fighting in the diner, and at the same time, nothing like it. That was fear for a friend, this is fear for his life. This is blood absorbing into a tan rug. This is pain and abandonment. This is vomit and terror.

Castiel doesn’t wake up that day, or the next.

It’s four days before Castiel regains consciousness for the first time. It’s fleeting, and he just about remembers Gabriel pressing him to drink something before dreamless sleep overtakes him again.

When Castiel has slept for a week, he opens his eyes and asks for his brother to turn down the air conditioning. Gabriel pulls the heavy comforter up around him, but doesn’t move to the thermostat. “Hey, kiddo,” he finally croaks out. “I’m going to need you to drink something for me, okay?” he says, trying to get Castiel to sit up. They struggle for a moment, but Castiel ends up in a position where he’s at least a little less likely to choke. Gabriel presses the straw to his lips, and he drinks the water greedily until Gabe pulls it away. “Don’t want you getting sick on me again, kiddo.”

“I feel like I haven’t had a drink in a week,” Castiel rasps.

“You’re not entirely wrong. You had some people pretty worried.”

“Some people?”

“Shut up.”

Castiel falls back to sleep to the soothing sounds of his brother talking. It can’t be that important anyway.

Gabriel’s voice transitions into nightmares. Castiel sees himself as a child, his cheeks rounded, his voice higher. He stands with Gabe in the house they grew up in. Wallpaper peels from the walls. His mother is yelling again. Gabriel grabs Castiel’s shirt sleeve carefully between his thumb and pointer finger and pulls them both behind the faded and torn couch. They both reach out to touch it, but there’s no comfort to be found, not even a tingle of watching television together after their mother leaves for work. She storms through the room, raging. Something breaks on the other side of the couch, and Castiel remembers it was the television. She slams through the front door without looking for her children.

Their father comes in from the kitchen moments later. He leans over the couch, and the look on his face is one of utter disgust. “Don’t get married and settled down, boys,” he tells them. “Whatever you do. I’ve sucked all the joy out of this marriage. And your mother is sucking the love out of this whole damned town.” He takes a drink from the beer in his hand, lets out a belch, and crashes face first on the couch, the beer spilling everywhere.

Castiel wakes up sweating. Touching that horrible gun has brought up some of his worst memories. “Gabriel,” he croaks. There’s no answer from the dark living room. “Gabe,” he tries again, panic lapping at the edges of his voice. A gentle snore is the only response. He supposes it doesn’t matter. It can wait until tomorrow.

It takes time for the fear to abate enough for Castiel to fall back to sleep, or maybe his body thinks it’s rested enough the last few days, but fall asleep he does, just as the sun starts to filter through the horrible golden yellow drapes.

The next thing Castiel remembers, Gabriel is shaking him awake. “Christ, Cassie. You’ve been out for almost 72 hours! I was getting worried again.”

It takes a moment for everything to come back to Cas, but it does, and he’s thinking more clearly. “Gabe, the gun.”

“What about it, Cas?” he asks, relaxed. Why doesn’t he understand the urgency?

“It’s going to kill someone! We have to stop it!”

Gabriel smiles and smooths Castiel’s messy, sweaty hair with a gloved hand. He grimaces and wipes his hand on the comforter. “It’s all taken care of, kiddo. I called the police. Told them we saw it when we ran the package through x-ray.”

“You don’t have an x-ray.”

Gabriel grins. “They don’t know that.” Castiel nods, relaxing back into the pillow. He reaches for the water on the bedside table but Gabe beats him to it and raises the straw to his lips. “You’re gonna be okay, Cassie.”

“Hey Gabe?” he asks. Gabriel hums a reply. “If that gun isn’t going to shoot anyone anymore, how come I was able to see it all?”

Gabriel frowns. “I don’t know kid. But remember when dad got us that baseball bat?” Castiel grimaces. “The first time I held it, I saw it hit you and your arm get broken.”

Castiel tries to sit up, surprised. “You never told me that.”

“Must have slipped my mind,” Gabe says flippantly. “But it didn’t make me sick. Because I never meant to hit you with that stupid baseball bat. You just got in the way. I’m guessing maybe you got sick from it because the guy meant to hurt someone, you know?”

Castiel grumbles. He doesn’t like the explanation, but it’s the best he’s going to get.

When he falls asleep again, it lasts less than forty eight hours. The next for thirty, then less than twenty. It’s still almost three weeks before he’s back to sleeping on a regular schedule. Another week before he can get out of bed longer than the time it takes to shower. But he recovers, however slowly.

Six weeks after he found the gun, already the end of June, Castiel finally gets back into his truck. He has been missing a lot of the pieces of his life. A lot of things. A lot of people. And it’s time he gets back to them.

The little bell over the door rings merrily when Castiel steps back into the diner. The smells of fresh coffee and fried food wash over him. It feels like coming home.

A quick glance around doesn’t reveal Dean, so he slips into his favorite booth, right next to the jukebox, and slips his driving gloves off. He runs his fingers over the familiar laminate table with a sigh. Leaning his head against the back of the booth, he feels the red leather give slightly behind him. The clatter of silverware on dishes washed out by the heavy strains of Metallica soothe some of the anxiety he’s been holding onto for weeks. Opening his eyes, he notices the white streamers and paper bells that are decorating the diner for the first time. A banner above the counter proclaims “Congratulations Benny and Andrea.” Benny must have finally proposed while he was away. Cas smiles for them. He pulls the menu from the stand underneath the window and looks for the new specials.

“Cas?” Sam’s voice is incredulous.

Castiel looks up, smiling warmly. “Hello, Sam.”

“Where have you been?”

Castiel sighs. “It’s kind of a long story.” One he’s looking forward to sharing with Dean.

Sam pours a him a cup of coffee. “Well, I’m not going anywhere for a while,” he says amicably. 

“I… I was ill.” Sam waits for Cas to elaborate, and Cas shifts in his seat. A million different explanations run through his head, but all of them would force him to reveal things he isn’t ready to say. Not to Sam, not yet. His mouth opens and closes a few times with false starts, but finally he just looks at the table.

“You were ill?” Cas nods, not looking up. “That’s… not really a long story, Cas.” There’s humor in his voice, but Castiel hears the exhaustion underneath it. When it’s clear that Cas isn’t going to elaborate, or even meet his eyes, Sam sighs. “What can I get for you?”

“Can I have a cheeseburger, please?”

Looking out of the corner of his eye, Cas can see Sam’s apron and the bottom few buttons of his shirt. They sway slightly in his view. He looks back at the table, he’s sure Sam will say something awful. “Sure thing, Cas,” Sam says leadenly. Castiel feels his footsteps as he walks away.

Part of Castiel wishes Sam would walk back over and strike up a conversation. Of course, Sam still has to work, especially since neither Dean nor Benny are anywhere to be seen, but… Cas misses his friends, and it’s starting to look like they have not missed him back. He fiddles with his driving gloves on top of the table before putting them back on. His nerves are raw; he’s grateful to hide, even just a little bit.

When Sam finally comes back with Cas’s food, several minutes later, he takes a quick look around the diner before sliding into the booth. “Hey, I’m sorry if I seemed kind of short before.”

Castiel’s eyebrows lower as he tries to understand. “You’re still quite tall, Sam.”

“No,” he huffs a laugh, “I meant short as in… cranky. I guess we’ve all been a little worried about you.” Castiel’s heart warms at the words. “Maybe you could call or something next time? Six weeks is a really long time, and well… it’s not really my place to say.”

“Is something wrong?” His heart freezes again.

The taller man leans close conspiratorially. “Look, you care about Dean a lot, right?”

“Of course I do. He’s my best friend.”

A strange look passes over Sam’s face, but Castiel can’t figure it out before it’s gone. “Right. Okay. So I know you’d want to do what’s best for him, right? You want him to be happy?”

Castiel doesn’t even have to think about that. “Yes, Sam.”

“I’m not going to tell you what should have happened, or what you should do now, or anything like that. You and Dean, you’re adults. You can figure it out. But since the last time you were here, Dean hasn’t been doing so good, Cas.”

“Dean’s sick too? I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do to help his recovery?”

Sam pushes his long hair out of his face. “He’s not sick, not really. He’s just been… down. Depressed, but don’t tell him I said that. Benny and I have been taking turns picking up the slack here. Dean won’t come to work unless we absolutely can’t cover for him. For the past few weeks he’s flat out refused to come on a Thursday.”

“Dean… isn’t happy.” The knowledge hits Castiel hard, bowing his shoulders and clenching tightly in his stomach.

Sam smiles gently; it rubs Castiel the wrong way. “I’m glad to see you, Cas. And I’m glad you’re doing better. But I’m staying out of this. You need to figure out what’s best for you and Dean.”

Castiel gulps down a sip of his coffee. “I understand, Sam.”

Sam stands up, one corner of his mouth twitching up sadly. “Thanks, Cas. Good talk.”

Cas finishes his coffee as quickly as he can. He grabs several napkins from the dispenser on the table and wraps his food in them, as neatly as he can considering how small they are. He pulls some money from his wallet, more than enough to cover the meal, and leaves it on the table without bothering to bring it to the register. He makes it out the door of the diner and inside the cab of his truck, but not all the way to his seat, before the tears start.

Of course. 

Of course Dean is depressed.

There was never really any other course this friendship could have taken. Castiel always knew that.

Pranat are not meant to have friends. They are certainly not meant to fall in love. His childhood should have taught him that, if nothing else. He was lucky. He and Gabriel were careful around one another. They were cautious with each other’s belongings. They had each other, and that was far more than they should have ever hoped to achieve.

How could Castiel have thought that Dean was different? He had been so impossibly naive. He could never hope to have something like this, a friendship that could withstand Castiel’s monstrosity. The pain twists through his stomach again.

Castiel starts the engine, refusing to sit in his truck staring at the back of the diner he knows he’ll never be able to return to. With his gloves, he wipes the tears from his eyes. The damned gloves! He rips them off and throws them into the bunk behind him. He grips the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. The tingle starts in his arms, but soon subsides. There’s no joy to be found here.

He pulls away with a cloud of dust kicked up from the dry dirt beneath the trailer’s wheels. It’s a fight not to check the rear view mirror. To distract himself, he tries turning on the radio. An ad comes on for hamburgers. He changes the station. The next broadcast that comes in clearly plays AC/DC. He turns the radio off in disgust and drives in silence, his stomach churning.

How many of Dean’s things must Castiel have touched in the months since they became friends, in the weeks and weeks since he’d revealed his secrets? All those nights, helping Dean close the diner, his gloves off while he worked with the cleaning solution. All those hours running his hungry, damned fingers over all the things that Dean held most dear. Castiel defiled the things that reminded Dean of his mother, he destroyed Dean’s very livelihood. He’d taken the joy out of Dean’s favorite pie plate, out of his cooking, out of his helping his customers, out of his music. He might as well have taken Dean’s soul. 

It’s no wonder that Dean is depressed.

It’s just like his father always said. Castiel sucked the life out of Dean.

Sam told Castiel to make a decision in Dean’s best interest. It’s not a difficult decision to make. Castiel will not return to Dean’s diner. That’s the only thing left to him. Maybe he can get Baldur or one of Gabriel’s other less desirable employees to ransack the place. Insurance would cover it, Benny already eased Castiel’s mind on that front. Then everything would be new, untouched by Castiel’s impure hands, and Dean could start to rebuild his life as he rebuilds his diner.

It’s a thought, anyway.

Castiel drives until no amount of rubbing his face keeps the tears from obscuring his vision. He pulls out his phone and, after a few false starts, dials his brother.

“Hey, lover boy! You need the sex talk already? I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Gabe, I need you to switch my route.”

“Damn, you move fast, Cassie. Ready to move in already?” Gabriel’s voice is light and teasing, and although Castiel appreciates it, he needs his brother to stop talking. “Might take a little while to get a local delivery schedule for you. It’s not everyone that’s willing to-”

“I’m keeping the overnight routes, Gabe. Just not this one.”

“Cas?” There’s worry in his voice now.

“Just do it, Gabriel. I’ll be home tomorrow. I need to be switched by then.” He hangs up without telling his brother goodbye.

Gabriel can’t pull it off. Cas isn’t able to start a new route the next day when he shows up at the hub, so he gets Baldur to cover for him until Gabriel works it out. The man is all too happy to take Castiel’s paycheck as well. Luckily, Castiel lives with his boss. He brings his books and clothes inside, pulls open the couch, and refuses to leave the living room, except for bathroom breaks, until all the employees have left for the night.

“Cassie, bro. Listen. I need some help downstairs today, and I know you want driving work, and I’m working on it. But if you could just come down for today, I’ll pay you for it. One of my guys called out sick, and-”

Castiel looks blearily up from the book he’s rereading for the fourth time in a week and levels a glare at his brother. “No, Gabe.”

“You need to get out of the apartment.”

“I will. When you set up a job for me.”

“I have a job for you! Right now! Downstairs!”

“You know what I mean.”

“Damn it, Castiel. I’m going to call an exterminator and have them bomb this whole place, if that’s what it takes to get you out of here for an hour or two.”

Castiel goes back to his reading. “Just get me driving again, Gabriel. That’s all I need.”

Gabriel comes over to sit on the arm of the couch, the only place he’s been able to sit in his own living room since Cas took up residence on the couch. “What if I decided I like having you around, kid? What if I’d rather have you here with me?” The words are calm and soothing with none of Gabriel’s familiar jocularity.

“May I use your computer?”

Pleasantly surprised, Gabriel agrees and logs him in. “What are you looking up there, Cassie?” he asks, plucking a sweet from one of his jars and leaning over the back of the couch to read over Castiel’s shoulder.

“Trucking jobs.” 

Gabe reaches over and closes the laptop, pulling it out of Castiel’s mostly unresisting hands. “I’m not going to let you do that,” he says, signing himself out and moving the computer to one of the end tables.

“Do what? Work?”

“I’m not going to let you just give up on everything. You want to go back to work, fine. I’ll get you back to work. But you’re coming home, here, at the end of every week for a day off. And I want phone calls.”

“I’m thirty five years old, Gabriel. You’re not my mother.”

Gabriel levels him with a stern look. “No. I’m not our mother. And you’re not our father, and the two of us are not pulling any of their shit. Not now. Not ever. So I say again: you’re coming home at the end of every week, and we’re going to spend the day together. As brothers. We’re going to take care of one another like we’ve always done, and like they never did. Understand?”

Rolling his eyes, Castiel reluctantly agrees.

Just before July is halfway over, Gabriel finally makes good on his promise to get Castiel driving again. The GPS in his truck takes most of the anxiety out of adjusting to the new route. This one doesn’t remind him with 70’s inspired diners and familiar sign posts of everything he’s screwed up, everything he’s lost.

He avoids any diners on the route anyway. It means he has to adjust his driving schedule, to make sure he gets his dinner while the big chain restaurants are still open. It costs more than he’s used to spending, and lacks the convenience of the smaller, privately owned restaurants, but his brother is kind enough to give him an added stipend for food. In fact, he’d almost pushed the credit card into Castiel’s hands.

About a week into his new route, and desperate for a coffee fix, Castiel pulls into a cafe outside of Sioux Falls that he’s never seen before. The hand lettered blackboard out front says “Ruby’s.” With his first step into the building he feels like he’s walked into a ream of copy paper. Everything is white. The floor tile, the walls, the acrylic sconces hanging from the ceiling. The front wall is half mirrors, bisected with shelves with candles on them set up behind tall white leather barstools. A giant dry erase board covers the entire back wall, and the only color in the entire place is in the writing and drawing there. The menu is handwritten across the wall - coffees, teas, and a few baked goods that Castiel sees in a glass case next to a blindingly white counter. The brightness hurts his eyes, and he spends more time than usual staring at the large back wall, just to break the monotony of it.

Patrons, or maybe employees, with white board markers have doodled everything from cats to elephants to buildings. For some reason, all of the characters, and some of the inanimate objects, are wearing thick-framed glasses. Many of them are also wearing scarves. He doesn’t understand, but then, art is subjective. He thinks for a minute about sitting at the counter, letting someone bring him a cup of coffee. There would be a friendly smile, someone to say “Hey, Cas. Long time no see,” as they topped off his mug. 

And then he remembers that this is the type of coffee place where you have to place your order at the counter before finding a seat. There are no worn brown leather barstools next to the register. No hamburgers or Rubens. He sighs.

“Hey Clarence! You gonna’ order some time today?”

He startles and stares at the dark haired woman behind the counter. “My name isn’t ‘Clarence.’ My name is Castiel.”

The woman shrugs nonchalantly and gives him an appraising look. “You look like a Clarence to me,” she concludes. “What can I get you?”

With another glance at the menu board, Castiel decides on an Americano and a blueberry muffin. Dean’s cafe didn’t sell muffins. 

It seems like a safe order until he realizes why he chose it.

“Whoa there, Clarence. You’re a real rebel aren’t you? Black coffee and a blueberry muffin. Trendy. Did you like them before they were cool?”

“What?” Castiel asks. He grows frustrated, although he’s uncertain whether it’s due to this woman’s antics or his own thoughts.

“Easy there, angel face. How about you take your cute little butt to a seat? I’ll call you when your super complicated order is ready.”

Castiel stares at her for a moment, but she shoos him away with a wave of her hand until he picks a seat at the counter by the window. He only has to wait a minute before the barista is bringing over his order. She slides onto the stool next to him, and he has to resist the urge to move away. “So handsome, I’d say ‘do you come here often,’ but I know for a fact that’s just not true. So do you plan on coming here often?” She reaches out to put a hand over his own, but he draws away.

“I don’t know. I suppose that depends on the food,” he says, feebly attempting to joke with her.

She looks at him curiously, and he has to look away. He sips at his coffee for something to do. It doesn’t taste anything like the coffee at the diner. But then, it wouldn’t. An Americano isn’t really a cup of black coffee. “Hey, Clarence, let’s start over.” He turns to look at her. “I’m Meg. This ain’t my place, but it might as well be. I’m bored, and you look interesting.”

He chuckles softly at that. “I suppose you wouldn’t be wrong.”

“I never am,” she replies, holding out her hand. Who knows, this might even be good for him. Castiel shakes her hand, still wearing his gloves. “I think you and I are going to be good friends, Clarence.”

After a few weeks on his new route, Castiel really feels like he’s getting into the routine of things. He leaves the GPS turned off, he picks up a new book from the library, although it seems to be taking longer than usual to get through it, and he begins to find comfort in the new places he's frequenting.

For some reason, he keeps coming back to Ruby’s. Despite their lack of palatable coffee, and the modest selection of food, he finds himself looking forward to returning for an hour or two each week.

“Surprise, Clarence,” he hears when he walks in. Meg raises a plastic party horn to her lips. The note is as flat as her delivery. The dry humor earns her a smile.

“What’s the occasion?”

She points to the white board, where a halfway decent drawing of a black haired man with, for some reason, black wings, a halo, and a harp are surrounded by the words “Happy Birthday, Clarence.”

He cocks his head to the side, tired of reminding her about his name. “It’s not my birthday,” he says instead.

Meg shushes him, throwing a wink over her shoulder. She comes out from behind the counter with a vanilla frosted cupcake, complete with a single candle. “Don’t let them hear you say that,” she hisses, gesturing at the other customers. “Then I can’t give you free shit.” She sticks a finger in the icing, gathers a large dollop, then sucks it into her mouth. Castiel rolls his eyes. “And that means _I_ don’t get free shit, my friend.” She plops the cupcake into his hand. “Coffee?”

“Please,” he says, gazing at the drawing on the wall. “And I don’t- I don’t have a harp, Meg.”

The barista rolls her eyes as she pulls his espresso shot. “You don’t have wings either. Call it artistic license.”

Castiel takes a bite of his cupcake, avoiding the spot Meg de-iced. “It’s surprisingly good.”

Meg scoffs, adding boiling water to thin out the concentrated coffee. “You didn’t even let me sing.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. It’s almost a question. “What were you going to sing?” He startles when Meg starts to laugh. It takes a moment for her to realize he isn’t laughing with her, and she stops herself reluctantly.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“There are many different genres of music, and each has several artists. Even if you were just thinking of number one hits, there would still be thousands of songs in the English language alone.”

The coffee cup clanks hard against the counter. “You are something else, Clarence.”

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly.

She smirks. “Don’t ever change, kid. Come here and get your coffee.” He only has to move about two steps to his left to meet her near the espresso machine. She looks him over critically, turning her head one way, then the other as he waits awkwardly in front of the counter for her to pass over the coffee. “You look a little too innocent for birthday spankings. But maybe I can convince you to let me lay a birthday kiss on you.”

He smiles at her when he rolls his eyes. “Stop flirting with me Meg. I like men.” 

“Clarence, you wound me,” she says, her hand clutching her chest in mock pain. He stalks behind the counter and kisses her on the cheek, holding his hand out for the coffee she still hasn’t relinquished. “There now. Was that so hard?”

“Terrible,” he teases back, then walks over to the barstools with his order. Meg slaps his ass as he’s walking away, and he narrowly manages to avoid spilling the coffee. She grins smugly at his glare.

Just before Castiel finishes his coffee, Meg comes sauntering over with two more cupcakes. One is enclosed in a clear plastic to-go container. “Don’t forget this,” she tells him. She pushes the wrapped confection across the counter to him before spinning around to lean her back against it. She turns her head to look at Castiel as she licks a stripe of the frosting off the other cupcake.

“I already told you, it isn’t my birthday.”

“Still harping on about that, are you?”

“I don’t understand,” he says. She takes pity on him.

“I told you weeks ago. You and I are going to be good friends. And every week I see you come dragging in here looking like someone kicked your damn puppy.” Castiel looks up at her, something warm growing in his chest. She cocks her head to the side, considering. “And I wanted a chocolate cupcake. So I gave you the vanilla ones.”

He chuckles at that. “Thank you, Meg.”

“Eeew, okay. Stop right there. You’re the good one. I’m the tough one. Don’t get all mushy on me, okay sweet cheeks?”

“Whatever you say,” he concedes.

She nods at him, an understanding passing between them as she pretends to ignore him for a bite of chocolate frosting. “Huh. These _are_ pretty good,” she says. “Maybe I should take yours back.” He looks up at her from under his lashes, letting his lips form a pout. It always worked on Gabriel when they were kids. “Oh my god, stop it!” she laughs outright. “Forget it. You can have all the cupcakes. Just don’t make that face again, I don’t think I can take it.”

Castiel smiles smugly and finishes his coffee. On his way out, Meg surprises him with a hug. “Don’t go telling everyone about any of this,” she says. “It’s only for the special customers.”

“Of course not, Meg. I wouldn’t ruin your reputation.”

“You’re all right, kid.” She waves him off with a mock salute. “See you next week, Clarence.”


	5. Chapter 5

“I think you should give it a shot, Clarence.” Meg reaches in front of Castiel to collect another patron’s cup. She could walk around him, but if the past few weeks have been anything to go by, that isn’t her style. In the three weeks since she surprised him with a fake birthday, she’s been laying it on thick with her slightly awkward casual touches, invading Castiel’s personal space. He still hesitates to accept it, but finds himself growing used to it. “So what if lover-boy’s brother told you to scram. Did you ever ask him yourself?”

His whole body tenses at the mention of Dean. “There’s no point. It would just cause Dean more pain.”

She shakes her head at him and frowns, narrowing her eyes. “And here I was thinking that you had some gumption, Castiel.” 

He looks up from his coffee, pinning her with a surprised glare. She smirks back. 

“Well that got your attention. Yeah, I remembered your name.” Castiel purses his lips, and turns away. He pulls out his phone, unsure what he will even look up, but this conversation is over. Meg snags the phone and puts it into her apron pocket, continuing to talk while she wipes the counter with her free hand. “You think you’re so brave, so selfless, leaving the guy you love.” He stares at her in consternation, but she doesn’t even look at him. “Poor Clarence, he must be some kind of martyr. But what did being a martyr ever get anyone?” She slams the empty, dirty cup down. “Dead.” With a nonchalant shrug she takes the seat next to him, the cleaning rag dangling loosely in her hand. “Seems to me that’s no way to live.”

Castiel hunches his shoulders and turns away, not ready to leave the air conditioning for the late July heat, but not sure he can listen to this anymore. “I’d like my phone back, Meg.”

“The way I’m thinking,” she continues, disregarding him, “it’s a whole hell of a lot harder to look what you’re scared of in the eye and fight for it than it is to walk away.” She stands up, ‘accidentally’ bumping into him with her hip. Despite the monumental effort, he doesn’t react. There’s a bite to her voice when she slams his phone on the counter and exchanges it for the dirty cup. “But then, what do I know, right angel?”

For the first time since he started coming to Ruby’s cafe, Castiel does not leave a tip.

Meg’s words chase him through the summer heat as he drives south to Kansas City from Sioux Falls. They linger in the back of his brain as he unloads the truck. They buzz through his skull when he tries to sleep on the pull-out couch in Gabriel’s living room.

First thing in the morning, despite his brother’s protests that they are supposed to be spending Castiel’s day off together, he uncouples the trailer from his truck and drives to Lawrence.

After a three and a half hour drive, thanks in part to rush hour traffic, Castiel pulls in behind the diner shortly after 9:30. Unsure if the lot behind the diner is still reserved for his truck after three months away, Castiel takes it anyway. At least the trailer isn’t hitched to it. He sits quietly for a minute, reminding himself of Meg’s words, and all the things left unsaid between him and Dean. He kills the ignition, and the silence is pervasive. The world comes back in a rush of sound when he opens the truck door and steps out to walk to the front of the diner.

The main parking lot is nearly empty as he makes his way to the door. A few older cars sit with the windows rolled down while their owners take advantage of the air conditioning inside. The breakfast rush is over, most of the nine-to-fivers already at work. Castiel pulls open the big glass front door to find just two booths and a few counter seats filled. An elderly couple and some college kids. He sees Dean behind the counter, and the sudden ache in his chest stops him where he stands.

Dean looks up at the cheerful jingle of the silver bells hung on the door. “Cas?” he says, disbelieving.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean puts the mug in his hand down very carefully before stepping out from behind the counter. “Where the hell have you been? It’s been months!” 

Castiel flinches back, hanging his head. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

“It’s… it’s okay, man.” He glances around at his customers. “I think they’ll be set for a minute, why don’t you sit down? I’ll grab you some coffee. We can catch up?”

Castiel nods, trying to smile. He takes a seat in one of the booths closer to the door, and runs a gloved hand over the familiar tabletop. Dean sits across from him, setting two mugs of thick black coffee on the table. “Where have you been?”

“I… There was an incident. I touched something. Something horrible. I was… Gabe says I was in a coma for a little while.” 

“Cas!” Dean gasps. His hand reaches out to take Castiel’s glove, but stops halfway. “I had no idea, I’m sorry. But Sam said you were here. Did you have a relapse?”

“Gabe changed my route.” There’s silence as Cas takes his first sip of coffee. It tastes nothing like Meg’s Americanos.

“Okay, and?”

“I asked him to.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Cas sees Dean fiddle with the corner of a napkin. “You uh… making more money on a longer route?” Dean’s guarded tone bites into Castiel’s heart.

“I needed to get away from here. I didn’t belong.”

“What?” Dean’s outburst startles the older woman sitting two booths away. “Sorry, ma’am,” he says when he sees her jump. He turns back to Cas. “What the hell does that mean?” he whispers fiercely. “And why didn’t you ever call?” A dam breaks inside Dean, allowing the anger he hid before to flood his tone.

“When I woke up… it took weeks to recover. I came back, but Sam said you’d changed.”

“What the hell does that even mean?”

Castiel shrugs. “I caused it. Your brother said so. He didn’t know, he couldn’t know, but I destroyed your life, Dean. Every time I touched something in this place that you loved, I took a piece of you away, until there was nothing left here for you. You spend hours here. It’s your whole life. And I… I destroyed it for you. And I need you to know that I am so, so sorry.”

Dean glares at him over his coffee cup. “You really believe that shit, don’t you?”

“It’s the truth.” Castiel pleads for understanding. “I wouldn’t have come back today at all, except Meg-”

“Meg?” Dean sneers, and Castiel finds himself cringing back against the leather booth. “Who’s Meg? Why does she even care?”

“I’m not sure why she cares… but I’m lucky she does. She’s been good for me, I think. She’s…” A couple of answers pass through his mind. ‘She’s a waitress at a little cafe where I get coffee. She’s a difficult woman with a strange sense of humor. She’s a good woman who wants to see me happy.’ The rareness of that causes Castiel to smile. “She’s a… friend,” the word is uncomfortable in his mouth, but welcome.

“I see. Well, you can go on back home and tell _Meg_ not to worry. Because me? I’m just fine. I don’t need ‘closure,’ or any of that other shit. And you? You can get the hell out of my diner.”

Castiel stands. The diner seems more packed than it was just a few minutes ago, although the door never opened. It feels like hundreds of eyes watch him, hundreds of ears listen to his conversation. He trips over his own feet on the way to the door. Slamming it open, he almost runs to the back, climbing into the truck and locking the door with a jarring thump. His own heartbeat pulsing in his ears is the only thing that breaks the silence. It takes several minutes before he finds the strength to pull his keys from his pocket. The roar of the engine doesn’t drown out his pulse. It takes another few minutes before he can put the truck in drive and pull away.

An early August thunderstorm rages, clattering against the metal roof of Gabriel’s apartment. Castiel finds the sound oddly soothing. Possibly the only thing that’s had a soothing affect on him in the past several months.

After hours of begging Castiel to come along, Gabriel finally left the house to visit some friends. Castiel has been working six days a week, so sue him if he doesn’t want to go visit some people he doesn’t know, or care about and be social for three hours. Besides, ever since he got sick, Gabriel doesn’t even give him a break when he’s working. He must call six times a day, just “checking in.” Castiel rolls his eyes. He’s no less capable of doing his job now than he was in May, or even April. 

Gabriel means well, if he would only leave Castiel alone, just a little while.

Castiel sighs and flicks through the channels on Gabriel’s television. He’ll probably just turn it off in a few minutes. Maybe he’ll pick up his library book again. The book isn’t particularly interesting either. Like the last seven or eight books he’s picked up, he’ll probably return this one unfinished. The channels flick away in front of him. There’s some sort of satellite dish hooked up to the outside of the building. Gabriel says it’s for business, but it connects straight to the television upstairs. Over three hundred channels, including ones dedicated to movies or sports, and absolutely nothing worth watching on television. He supposes it could be worse. If Gabriel were here, he would probably put on some puerile comedy and expect Castiel to laugh at the empty jokes.

The television loops back around to the local networks, but there’s still nothing on. Castiel heaves a sigh.

Something catches his eye.

An image on the television. A crime scene decorated in blood and gore. Darkening red stains on a tan carpet, in an all too familiar pattern. Something darker, like vomit, just about visible in frame.

Castiel knows this. He’s lived through it before.

“A gristly scene in a local neighborhood this afternoon: an attempted murder/suicide downtown has left two children injured and two adults reported dead, the shooter is in critical condition. Early speculation is that the ex-husband arrived shortly after work, firing shots at the children, their mother, and her husband before turning the gun on himself. We are waiting for further developments on this story, and will update you as they come in.”

Lightning strikes the transformer across the street and the power dies. The thunderclap rolls through the metal building, shaking the walls. It’s hard to tell if it’s the news story, or the impossibly close thunder that seems to reverberate for entire minutes, but something reaches into Castiel’s chest and pulls it apart. He’s sure his heart has stopped.

Children injured.

Two dead.

Shooter.

Gunshot wounds.

From a gun Castiel held in his hands. A gun that Gabriel assured him was taken care of. He pulls out his cell phone, grateful that it still has a charge, and dials his brother.

“Cassie?” Gabe calls over the pounding heartbeat of techno music.

“Gabriel, what happened to the gun?” His breathing is heavy. He drops to his knees. Maybe there’s more air closer to the ground.

The throbbing music and the noise of people congregating en masse diminish as Gabriel finds somewhere a little quieter to talk to his brother. Castiel finds the silence almost as grating as the noise. “You okay, kiddo?”

Panting and grabbing at his chest, Castiel repeats himself. “What happened to the gun?”

“What gun?”

“The gun. The gun in the package. The one you said the police came to pick up.” He puts his free hand up against the side of the couch, holding it vaguely in the air. Hands above your head. That’s supposed to be a thing when you’re panicked, right? Right? The silence stretches over the line and he pulls his hand down, clutching the phone to his face with both hands. This can’t be happening. There must be a mistake. Gabriel is going to tell him it’s a mistake. It’s not his gun. Not his tan carpet. Not his blood. Right? Gabriel?

“They couldn’t hold it.” Gabriel’s voice is defeated, lacking all it’s typical charm and warmth. “Except for declaring to us that we were carrying a firearm, everything was legal. They were fined, but the gun made it to whoever was supposed to get it.”

“No,” Castiel whispered. “No. No. No.” Someone whines. It’s him.

Gabriel might reply. He might be shouting, or hanging up, or singing a song, but Castiel has no idea. All he hears is this voice screaming in his head. He covers his ears to stop it. “You knew about this. Two children are hurt, because you didn’t stop it. Two adults are dead because you didn’t stop it. Because you didn’t stop it. You didn’t stop it.”

There’s nothing but rain and darkness. “You didn’t stop it.” Somehow, Castiel digs through his brother’s drawers and finds some emergency candles. “You didn’t stop it.” He lights them and sits down. His hands pick up the library book and open it across his lap. “You didn’t stop it.” The letters dance on the page. When he closes his eyes, they dance across his vision. “You didn’t stop it,” they tease. 

With a groan, he flings the book across the room. It hits the curtain, and the glass behind it gives a hollow, mocking sound. He closes his eyes again to see blood, soaking into a tan carpet. “You didn’t stop it.” His imagination provides a perfect tableau of five strangers. All of them are bloody. Two of them, a man and a woman, stare unblinking back at him. Dead. “You didn’t save us.”

Gabriel finds him shivering on the couch, the wax of the candles just starting to burn down. He puts on a pair of leather gloves despite the heat and helps Castiel up with gentle words. Castiel doesn’t respond. But he doesn’t resist either as Gabriel walks him into the bedroom, pulls off his shoes, and lays him in the big bed. “I’m sorry, Cassie,” he thinks he hears. “I should have taken care of it. It’s my fault.” Castiel stares at the walls, the teal muted in the darkness. Somehow, the colors don’t seem as jarring now. It doesn’t matter. Or maybe, it’s just that teal and white are better than red and tan.

Castiel refuses to leave the house for two weeks. Sometimes he stares at the walls. Sometimes he stares at the white porcelain figures in Gabriel’s room. Sometimes he breaks them. He should feel sorry, but somehow, he can’t.

Every day Gabriel wakes him up with false cheerfulness. Castiel stops eating. He stops wearing his gloves. He knows Gabriel must be feeding him while he sleeps. He sleeps a lot. It’s marginally better than being awake.

Every evening when Gabriel comes in from work, he wakes Castiel again, still holding onto the same fake levity. Castiel saw it too many times when they were children for it to work on him now. Gabe tries to convince Castiel to come out to dinner, suggesting ever more outlandish or extravagant places. Castiel stares at him. Sometimes, he falls asleep.

Gabriel takes off two days every week, and he begs Castiel to come out with him. A zoo. The aquarium. A baseball game. A water park.

For fourteen days, Castiel turns down every offer. On the fifteenth day, the aggravation of listening to Gabriel cajole any longer becomes more agitating than the idea of spending six hours away from the hub. He concedes with a mechanical nod. Gabriel’s joy is a little less forced. It’s still crap.

Gabriel’s car is tan on the outside. He has to open the door for Castiel. It smells like sweat and fast food and sugar inside. Castiel’s hand sticks to something when he tries to buckle his seatbelt. A passing thought suggests it might not be sugar, but he decides it really doesn’t matter. He wipes his hand on his pants. 

Gabriel natters aimlessly while he drives. Castiel stares out the window and lets him talk. His mind hasn’t shown him red on tan since he refused to open the passenger side door. He shudders at the passing thought and shoves it away, concentrating on an itch on his left thigh.

The car turns off, and the engine stills. It takes a moment for Castiel to register that it isn’t another stoplight. That they’ve arrived. He has to do something. Get out of the car. 

He gets out and shuts the door. The place doesn’t look familiar, but at least it isn’t full of screaming children or too-bright roller coasters.

“Well?”

Castiel stares at his brother. “Where are we?”

Gabriel’s face falls. “It’s the Eisenhower Presidential Library. Now personally, not my cup of tea. But hey! You love books! And you like history! And d- this should be right up your alley.”

Castiel nods. Gabriel looks back at him, maybe it’s hope, but it might be sadness in his eyes. The fake happiness is back. “Thank you, Gabe.” The words feel wooden in his mouth, but Gabriel seems to find them encouraging, because he forces Castiel back into the leather gloves he’s refused to wear for two weeks, and puts his own gloved hands around Castiel’s shoulder, drawing him up to the series of buildings that make up the site.

A video plays in one of the rooms. Castiel remembers that he watched it respectfully. He doesn’t recall who was in it or what they had to say. Neither brother has the credentials to get themselves into the library proper, but it really doesn’t matter.

They tour Eisenhower’s boyhood home. Gabriel becomes engrossed in one of the exhibits. Although it’s more likely he’s engrossed in the red-headed tour guide. Castiel sneaks off and wanders over to the place of meditation. Gabriel will be fine for a few hours. The cathedral is quiet and welcoming. It’s peaceful here. Restful. People stop in, respectful. They don’t even whisper. It’s refreshing.

A man is buried here. A president. He stood on this ground as a child, grew to do great things for the people he believed in, and came back to rest. Forever in silence and solitude. Almost solitude. Still, the company isn’t terrible.

It’s nice, being with the dead. He can’t hurt the dead. It was the first thing he and Gabriel learned. The dead have no joy left. He can’t take anything from them. Wool. Leather. Meat. They all block him from feeding. Idly he contemplates being locked in Eisenhower’s tomb. It doesn’t seem so bad. No. Not so bad at all.

The tour apparently over, Gabriel soon found him and pulled him from his reverie. “Come on, Cassie. The museum is next.”

Two more sections to visit, and then this would be over. He could go back home and maybe Gabriel would leave him alone for a few hours.

“Cas?” Gabriel doesn’t call him Cas. It isn’t important. “Cas is that you?” A man stands in front of him to get his attention. A tall man. ‘Sam,’ his brain supplies. The word doesn’t mean anything, until it suddenly does. “It is you! Wow! I haven’t seen you in months. Dean said you got a transfer at work. How have you been?” He’s too big, too loud, too chipper, too real. Somehow it’s worse than Gabriel’s pretensions of excitement.

“Sam.” It’s the only word his brain supplies. It doesn’t seem to matter anyway. Gabriel steps between them and starts talking up at Sam.

“Well, hello there, handsome. I haven’t seen you here before.” They talk. Castiel stares at a dress worn by Mamie Eisenhower. The glare from the glass in front of it distracts him for a few precious seconds.

“So…it’s good to see you Cas.” Oh. It must be time to talk again.

“You too, Sam.” They stand side by side, staring at the dress that Castiel probably can’t describe if he closes his eyes.

Sam opens his mouth. Pauses. Shifts his weight. Tries again. “Dean’s having a hard time lately.”

Castiel’s world tips. In two weeks, all he’s thought about has been red and tan, but now here comes yellow, orange, and olive green laminate, red leather booths, and the brightest green eyes Castiel has ever seen. “He hasn’t been taking my moving out here too well. It’s closer with the new job, but still. It’s too bad your route got changed, really. He could use a friend like you, with me gone and Benny planning his wedding.”

Dean is alone. Sam left. Why? “Why did you leave?”

Sam shrugs. “He told me to.”

“Me too.”

Both men stand there, eyes focused on the middle distance, until Gabriel steps in. “Well, nice meeting you, gigantor. Real bucket of laughs you are. So glad we ran into you. But I’ve got to get this party animal here home.” He slings his arm around Castiel and leads him to the car, careful to open the door before the color even registers. Castiel isn’t sure when the tears start falling, but he doesn’t bother to brush them away.

The ride home is somber. Gabriel tries to speak a few times, but Castiel doesn’t answer. There’s too much swirling in his head. Dean is sad. Dean is sad because Cas left. He’s sad because Sam and Benny left. The kids on the news are sad because their families left. Cas… Cas is sad too.

But maybe there’s a way to fix it. He feeds on emotions. He can’t help the children. He doesn’t know them, and heaven knows what people would think if a strange man came up trying to touch them. But Dean… maybe he can still help Dean. If he touches him, if he takes away the loneliness and the pain…

There are two things that could happen. Dean gets better, and Castiel gets sicker. But what the hell? Castiel is so numb right now, what would it matter?

Or - Dean gets better. And his pain, combined with Castiel’s own, squeezes Castiel’s heart until it stops beating in his chest. And then, maybe he can join the quiet dead in their peaceful rest.

 

There’s no down side to this, really.

The rain falls softly when Castiel pulls his truck into the diner parking lot. Despite the lights lit inside, the sign on the door is turned to ‘closed.’ Castiel tries it anyway, relieved when it opens and he’s able to step inside. The smell of dark roast coffee, pecan pie, and seasoned hamburgers cloud his senses.

“What are you doing here?” Dean’s gruff voice grinds at Castiel’s willpower, but he presses further into the building, closing the door against the rainfall outside. “We’re closed, Cas.”

The dark circles under Dean’s eyes stand out against his skin, rivaling Castiel’s. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Dean.”

Dean turns his head away, grabbing a dishcloth and an already sparkling clean glass and rubbing at it with unnecessary strength. “Yeah. You said. In fact, I think your new girlfriend told you to say that. So we’re all good.” He gives the glass a particularly strong rub and knocks it out of his hand, sending it smashing to the ground. Dean takes a deep breath. “I thought I told you to stay away.”

Castiel eases himself onto one of the stools, several feet from where Dean stands, staring at the pieces of broken glass on the floor. Dean’s weight shifts toward Cas for just a second, before he pushes himself even further away. Closing his eyes and taking a steadying breath, he stalks over to the dustbin and broom and starts sweeping up the pieces. 

“How are you Dean?” Cas asks, his voice tight with emotion.

“I’m fine, Cas,” Dean says sharply. “Why are you here?”

“Sam-” he starts, but is cut off by the sound of the dustbin being slammed into the floor.

“Sam’s not here.” Dean’s words are measured. He doesn’t turn around.

Castiel stands, his black leather gloves, still wet from the rain, leave a trail along the counter as he walks toward Dean, approaching him like a skittish animal. “I know,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry, Dean.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I’m here to make it a little better, if you’ll let me.” Dean turns at that, searching Cas’s face. His mouth parts in question. “I can’t take your memories, but I think I can take the pain. At least for a little while, make it bearable.” Dean tenses, and Castiel turns to leave. “I’m sorry. It was a stupid idea. I know Sam is your whole world. I shouldn’t have suggested…” Dean stops him, leaning over the counter to lay a hand on his shoulder. Cas looks at Dean’s hand, before turning and searching his face. The lines of his jaw are still hard and unforgiving.

“You can’t do that, Cas.” Castiel nods, apologizing. “I mean it, man. Every time you touch something bad, you get sick. I saw it. You told me about that gun.” Castiel’s stomach clenches. “I’m bad for you.” He squeezes Castiel’s shoulder, needing him to understand the importance of his words. “I won’t do that to you.”

A roll of Castiel’s shoulder shakes Dean off. He stands up straighter. “You aren’t doing anything _to_ me. You don’t have to bear this alone. If you won’t let me shoulder this burden as a friend, let me take it from you as a monster.”

Shock sends Dean reeling backwards. “You’re not a monster, Cas.” He makes his way around the counter, disregarding the leftover pieces of glass crunching beneath his boots. “How could you even say that?”

“You know what I am. What I can do.” His jaw twitches as he tries to keep his voice hard, but the pleading tones invade his words anyway. “I’m just like my parents. I take whatever makes people happy. But I can be different. I can take pain, too. I want to be different. I have a chance to be better than them, for once in my life. Let me do this for you. Let me redeem myself, just a little. Let me take the pain.” Dean steps in front of him. He shakes his head, no, and a tear falls down his cheek. “I won’t do it without your permission,” Cas says, defeated. He looks at his shoes, the leather is scuffed. He sniffs. “I’m sorry, Dean. I won’t bother you again.”

“Touch me.”

Castiel looks up, blinking from the shock. Dean says it again. “Touch me, Cas. Please. Touch me.”

Cas takes off one of the leather gloves he’s been wearing despite the spike in temperature. He tentatively closes the space between them, and raises his hand to Dean’s face, his fingers hovering over Dean’s stubbled jawline. His thumb brushes away the single tear that slips down Dean's face. Castiel inhales deeply, smelling the scent of leather, and cooking oil, of hamburgers and industrial cleaners, and Dean. Most of all, Dean. He lets his fingers finally fall on Dean’s face, and tenses as Dean’s eyes close, waiting for the tingle to start in his arm, to travel into his fingers. He expects the pain, he knows it’s coming, but he can do this. He’s planned for this. He only needs to hold on long enough to take Dean’s pain.

Without warning, Dean closes the gap between them, and suddenly all Cas can think of is the press of Dean’s lips against his. The smooth feel of them against his own, and the gentle scrape of five o’clock shadow over his stubble. The kiss is chaste, but Dean’s hand balls up into his jacket, pulling him closer. Cas presses against Dean, just this one last time, as he feels the tingle through his fingers. He braces for the rush of Dean’s pain.

Any images he might receive are drowned out by the cut of Dean’s jaw beneath his hand, and the press of his lips, parted ever so slightly. Then, Dean pulls away. Green eyes open wide, filled with emotion. Castiel’s hand grips Dean’s face tighter. “I still feel… Cas, nothing changed.”

Castiel rips off his other glove and drops it to the floor, pressing the fingers of both hands into Dean’s cheeks. He needs to feel that tingle again, that sign that his powers are working. He grips Dean’s arm. The tingle races through his body again, but there’s no return flood of images and feelings, no sense of being filled. No happiness. No sadness. Still clutching Dean’s arm, Castiel sinks to his knees. “It didn’t work. I couldn’t help. I’m sorry, Dean. I’m sorry.” Tears run down his face, and he brushes them aside brusquely. There’s a hole in his chest. This is not the plan. Castiel should be lying on the floor, his heart stopping with Dean’s pain. Not a burden to anyone ever again. 

Dean, he should be walking around without a care in the world. Still able to embrace the joy in the time he spends with his family and friends, but no longer concerned about being on his own. Castiel gasps a breath. Good for nothing. Strong hands land on his shoulders, but Castiel can’t bear to look Dean in the eye. Not now.

“One thing,” he whispers. “I was going to do one good thing, and I failed. I’m sorry.” He brushes Dean’s hands away and stands up. He no longer pays attention to the tears that roll down his face. If he rubs them, he'll just bring attention to them. He is not going to be Dean’s problem anymore. He takes a hesitant step toward the door. When his legs support him, he takes another, and another. The door opens at his push, and he’s standing in the rain. No one can see the tears in the rain.

He ignores the sound of cars rushing past on the highway as he sloshes through the puddles growing on the uneven pavement. And then Dean is in front of him, standing between Castiel and his truck. “Let me go, Dean.”

“No.” Castiel tries to move around Dean, sloshing from one side to another, but Dean stays steadfastly in his way. “Damn it, Cas. I said no. I’m not letting you get away again.” He grabs Cas by the jacket, shaking him, but Cas stands there, unmoved. “You came here, and you thought you were going to die?” he demands.

“No, I-” Cas deflects.

“Don’t lie to me, I heard you. You thought your heart was going to stop if you took my pain. You came here to commit suicide.”

“I just don’t want to hurt anymore. I can’t let myself hurt anyone anymore. I can’t let myself hurt you.”

The stand underneath the parking light as the rain soaks through their clothes, neither makes any move to get back inside. “You didn’t hurt me. You just touched me. You didn’t hurt me.”

“I did hurt you. I left. Even Sam said I hurt you.”

“I was wrong.” He reaches through the rain and takes Castiel by the hands, pressing them both to his face. “I need you, Cas. I need you.”

When Dean reaches for his hand, Castiel doesn’t try to run. He lets himself be brought back into the diner. “You’re going to be okay,” Dean reassures him. “We’re both going to be okay.” Cas can’t bring himself to completely believe the uncertain words, but he wants to. Dean hugs Cas then, pulling Castiel’s face into the crook of his neck. Castiel stiffens, shivering in his arms, and Dean tries not to laugh.

“What are you doing?” Dean pulls back to look at Castiel’s face, and starts to laugh in earnest. “It’s not funny, Dean.”

Dean just pulls him in again. “I know, I know. But you look like a wet cat, standing there so grumpy.”

“I’m not a feline.”

“I know,” he says, still struggling not to laugh. “It’s just… you know what? Don’t worry about it.”

“We need to talk,” Cas says, so Dean pulls him over to one of the red leather booths, letting him slide into the seat before sliding in on the same side and pressing himself against Castiel’s side. “What are you doing?”

“You looked cold,” he says, almost nervously. “Is this… is this not okay?”

Castiel deliberates. “It’s okay.” Dean smiles at him, and some of the pain coiled tight around Castiel’s rib cage unwinds, just a little.

“So, uh… you touched me back there.” Castiel glances up to see Dean staring at his hands, folded on the table. “I kind of thought that was supposed to be a big issue for you guys.”

“Of course it is,” Cas says, but he sounds unsure himself. “Pranat are leeches. We’re parasites. Aren’t we?” Memories swarm his mind. He touched Dean, and Dean was okay. Months ago, he grabbed Dean’s attacker by the wrist. He felt nothing from him. It wasn’t until he grabbed the knife… “When I was small, I remember my mother…” The words stick in his throat. “It’s not happy memory, Dean.” He feels Dean’s hand squeeze his leg under the table in comfort and presses on. “She would hit me. She didn’t wear gloves. And I thought… I thought that was it. We couldn’t touch anyone. Gabe and I decided we would always wear our gloves, that we wouldn’t be like mom or dad. But…”

“But what?”

“I wasn’t always sad, Dean. Of course I wasn’t happy when she hit me, but if she was taking my happiness, I couldn’t have felt it at school, or watching television with my brother while she worked. I…” His words trail off in awe. So many thoughts fight for his attention. The tears start falling again, but this time every drop loosens something inside him. 

Dean reaches over and grabs some napkins from the dispenser. When Cas doesn’t stop him, he gently wipes the tears away. Castiel buries himself in Dean’s arms, and Dean strokes his hand down his back, murmuring quiet reassurances. “I should have known,” he says, half to himself. “When you fought that asshole with the knife. And I you grab him. But I kind of thought, who cares if the asshole loses his happiness? I didn’t think.”

“No, Dean. How could you know?”

“I’ve seen you. I’ve seen it when you’re feeding. You get paler. Your eyes get kind of far away. But none of that happened. I should have touched you sooner. All of this… I was so stupid.”

“And then I was gone,” Cas says sadly.

“I missed you, you know?” Dean says, pushing Castiel back so he can look into hiss eyes. “So damn much.” He shakes his head, casting his eyes down at the space between them.

“But-”

“Sam told me he saw you, back in June. I guess right after Benny proposed to Andrea. He said you got sick, but that you were back. I uh… I started coming back here.” He lifts his eyes to see Cas again. “You never showed up.” The words lack accusation, but Castiel flinches anyway.

“Sam said you were hurting. I thought I was the cause. I- Can you imagine? I thought-”

Dean leans back against the booth, his knee bumping gently into Cas’s. “It’s my fault. You came back, and I sent you away. But you were talking about some woman, and I was so freaking jealous.”

“Woman?” he wonders aloud. “Meg?

Dean’s mouth thins. “Yeah.”

Castiel reaches out, but hesitates. With determination, he puts his bare hands over Dean’s. “Meg is just a friend. I don’t feel… she’s a friend, Dean. She encouraged me to come back and see you because she knew I was missing you.”

“I’m so freaking stupid,” Dean spits.

“It would seem we both were.” Castiel stares out the window, the thought of his recent failures, at work, with Dean, with Gabriel, rushing forward to haunt him. He starts to shiver, unsure if it’s caused by the cold of being wet in the air conditioned room or his own mind. Dean’s arm reaches around him and pulls him close. He turns and looks up at the man comforting him. The time they wasted threatens to strangle him. “I’m not okay, Dean.”

Dean places his other hand over Castiel’s and gives it a squeeze. “I know.”

“I was wrong about so many things. About myself. About you. It feels like I’m starting over.” It’s dizzying.

“I like the sound of that.” Castiel looks up at him, seeing more clearly now; the dark clouds finally beginning to lift. “Starting over. We could try that. Together.”

“Together,” Castiel repeats, nodding. “Is that standing offer still open?”

Dean smiles and leans in. Castiel’s fingers graze against Dean’s jaw. He kisses him, and at least for a moment, he’s at peace.

Cas returns home with some phone numbers. He doesn’t have an appointment yet. No one was open by the time he and Dean got around to looking for therapists. But Dean’s promised to sit with him while he makes the calls, if he wants company. He drives back to the hub feeling lighter than he has in months.

Gabriel starts banging against the passenger side door before Castiel even turns the engine off. “You asshole! Where were you? I was worried sick! You just jump out of the car and into the truck and drive off into the freaking sunset! It was hours ago, Cassie! Hours!” The hollow sound of his fist against metal punctuates each shout.

Cas jumps down from the driver’s side and pulls his brother into a hug that he’s waited thirty-four long years for. “What the hell are you doing? Your gloves! You’ve been sick enough as it is!”

“It’s okay, Gabe,” he says, pulling away from the hug, but gripping his brother’s forearms in his hands. “We were wrong. We don’t have to be monsters. We never were.”

**Author's Note:**

> *The title of this work comes from the Zac Brown Band song, which you can listen to [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oouFE51HcqM).
> 
> *The monster species, the Pranat, come from the idea of Pranic Vampires, a type of psychic vampire who’s name comes from the Hindu word which means all cosmic energy. I thought that was very cool. I hope you do, too.
> 
> *I took some liberties with driving times and distances. Every time I thought I had Cas’s route planned, something in the timing changed. Pretend it makes sense.
> 
> * * *
> 
> All that said, I really hope you enjoyed this, and if you did, please leave a kudos or a comment. I'm headed to knee surgery soon, so I would love to hear from you while I'm recuperating, and while you're at it, check out some of the other PineFest stories, and send some love to my artist, [keylimedean!](http://keylimedean.tumblr.com) I really still am in awe of the luck I got when she chose my story. Wow.


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